IV 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends 

of 

Provence 

AND   SOME   OTHER 
PROVENCAL    FESTIVALS 


BY 

Thomas  A.  Janvier 

SOCI  DOU  FELIBRIGE 

AUTHOR   OF 

'IN    OLD    NEW    YORK  "    "  THE     PASSING     OF     THOMAS  ' 

"  IN  GREAT   WATERS  "    ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


£H^NS^Sr<S?^<S^^4£^? 


HARPER    &   BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
1902 

i 


Copyright,  1902,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

Alt  rights  restrvtd. 

Published  November,  190a. 


TO 

CA.J. 


Contents 


PAGE 

The  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence    .    .        i 

A  Feast-day  on  the  Rhone 133 

The  Comedie  Francaise  at  Orange     ...    209 


Illustrations 


"  '  TO  THE  HEALTH  OF  THE  COUNT!'  " 

AT  THE  WELL 

PLANTING   SAINT   BARBARA'S  GRAIN  .      . 

ELIZO'S  OLD  FATHER 

MAGALI  

THE   PASSING  OF   THE   KINGS        .... 

"  THE  BLIND   GIRL  " — NOEL 

THE  LANDING-PLACE  AT   TOURNON      .      . 

THE  DEFILE   OF  DONZERE 

THE  ROUMANILLE  MONUMENT      .... 

AVIGNON 

GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  THEATRE  .  . 
"  IT    LOOKED    TREASONS,    CONSPIRACIES 

AND   MUTINOUS  OUTBURSTS  "... 

THE   GREAT  FACADE  

SCENE      FROM       THE       FIRST       ACT       OF 

"  (EDIPUS  " 

SCENE      FROM      THE      SECOND      ACT      OF 

"ANTIGONE" 

vii 


Frontispiece 

Facing  p.         6 

14 

74 
100 
112 
118 
166 
190 
198 
204 
210 

236 

248 
"    256 


Cbe    Christmas    Kalends 
of    Provence 


tbe    Christmas    Kalends 
of    Provence 


Fancy  you've  journeyed  down  the  Rhone, 
Fancy  you've  passed  Vienne,  Valence, 

Fancy  you've  skirted  Avignon — 
And  so  are  come  en  pleine  Provence. 

Fancy  a  mistral  cutting  keen 
Across  the  sunlit  wintry  fields, 

Fancy  brown  vines,  and  olives  green, 
And  blustered,  swaying,  cypress  shields. 

Fancy  a  widely  opened  door, 

Fancy  an  eager  outstretched  hand, 

Fancy — nor  need  you  ask  for  more — 
A  heart-sped  welcome  to  our  land. 

Fancy  the  peal  of  Christmas  chimes, 
Fancy  that  some  long-buried  year 

Is  born  again  of  ancient  times — 

And  in  Provence  take  Christmas  cheer  I 

IN  my  own  case,  this  journey  and  this  wel- 
come were  not  fancies  but  realities.     I  had 
come  to  keep  Christmas  with  my  old  friend 
Monsieur  de  Vielmur  according  to  the  tradi- 
3 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

tional  Provencal  rites  and  ceremonies  in  his 
own  entirely  Provencal  home:  an  ancient 
dwelling  which  stands  high  up  on  the  west- 
ward slope  of  the  Alpilles,  overlooking  Aries 
and  Tarascon  and  within  sight  of  Avignon, 
near  the  Rhone  margin  of  Provence. 

The  Vidame — such  is  Monsieur  de  Viel- 
mur's  ancient  title :  dating  from  the  vigorous 
days  when  every  proper  bishop,  himself  not 
averse  to  taking  a  breather  with  sword  and 
battle-axe  should  fighting  matters  become 
serious,  had  his  vice  dominus  to  lead  his 
forces  in  the  field — is  an  old-school  coun- 
try gentleman  who  is  amiably  at  odds  with 
modern  times.  While  tolerant  of  those  who 
have  yielded  to  the  new  order,  he  him- 
self is  a  great  stickler  for  the  preservation 
of  antique  forms  and  ceremonies :  sometimes, 
indeed,  pushing  his  fancies  to  lengths  that 
fairly  would  lay  him  open  to  the  charge  of 
whimsicality,  were  not  even  the  most  ex- 
travagant of  his  crotchets  touched  and 
mellowed  by  his  natural  goodness  of  heart. 
In  the  earlier  stages  of  our  acquaintance 
I  was  disposed  to  regard  him  as  an  eccentric ; 
but  a  wider  knowledge  of  Provencal  matters 
4 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

has  convinced  me  that  he  is  a  type.  Under 
his  genial  guidance  it  has  been  my  privilege 
to  see  much  of  the  inner  life  of  the  Provencaux, 
and  his  explanations  have  enabled  me  to 
understand  what  I  have  seen :  the  Vidame 
being  of  an  antiquarian  and  bookish  temper, 
and  never  better  pleased  than  when  I  set 
him  to  rummaging  in  his  memory  or  his 
library  for  the  information  which  I  require 
to  make  clear  to  me  some  curious  phase  of 
Provencal  manners  or  ways. 

The  Chateau  de  Vielmur  has  remained  so 
intimately  a  part  of  the  Middle  Ages  that 
the  subtle  essence  of  that  romantic  period 
still  pervades  it,  and  gives  to  all  that  goes 
on  there  a  quaintly  archaic  tone.  The  don- 
jon, a  prodigiously  strong  square  tower  dat- 
ing from  the  twelfth  century,  partly  is  sur- 
rounded by  a  dwelling  in  the  florid  style 
of  two  hundred  years  back  —  the  arch- 
itectural flippancies  of  which  have  been  so 
tousled  by  time  and  weather  as  to  give  it 
the  look  of  an  old  beau  caught  unawares  by 
age  and  grizzled  in  the  midst  of  his  affected 
youth. 

In  the  rear  of  these  oddly  coupled  struct- 
5 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

ures  is  a  farm-house  with  a  dependent  ram- 
bling collection  of  farm-buildings;  the  whole 
enclosing  a  large  open  court  to  which  access 
is  had  by  a  vaulted  passage-way,  that  on 
occasion  may  be  closed  by  a  double  set  of 
ancient  iron-clamped  doors.  As  the  few  ex- 
terior windows  of  the  farm-house  are  grated 
heavily,  and  as  from  each  of  the  rear  corners 
of  the  square  there  projects  a  crush7  tourelle 
from  which  a  raking  fire  could  be  kept  up 
along  the  walls,  the  place  has  quite  the  air  of 
a  testy  little  fortress — and  a  fortress  it  was 
meant  to  be  when  it  was  built  three  hundred 
years  and  more  ago  (the  date,  1561,  is  carved 
on  the  keystone  of  the  arched  entrance)  in 
the  time  of  the  religious  wars. 

But  now  the  iron-clamped  doors  stand  open 
on  rusty  hinges,  and  the  court-yard  has  that 
look  of  placid  cheerfulness  which  goes  with 
the  varied  peaceful  activities  of  farm  labour 
and  farm  life.  Chickens  and  ducks  wander 
about  it  chattering  complacently,  an  aged 
goat  of  a  melancholy  humour  stands  usually 
in  one  corner  lost  in  misanthropic  thought, 
and  a  great  flock  of  extraordinarily  tame 
pigeons  flutters  back  and  forth  between  the 

6 


'' 


AT   THE    WELL 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

stone  dove-cote  rising  in  a  square  tower  above 
the  farm-house  and  the  farm  well. 

This  well — enclosed  in  a  stone  well-house 
surmounted  by  a  very  ancient  crucifix — is 
in  the  centre  of  the  court-yard,  and  it  also  is 
the  centre  of  a  little  domestic  world.  To  its 
kerb  come  the  farm  animals  three  times  daily ; 
while  as  frequently,  though  less  regularly, 
most  of  the  members  of  the  two  households 
come  there  too;  and  there  do  the  humans — 
notably,  I  have  observed,  if  they  be  of  differ- 
ent sexes — find  it  convenient  to  rest  for  a 
while  together  and  take  a  dish  of  friendly 
talk.  From  the  low-toned  chattering  and  the 
soft  laughter  that  I  have  heard  now  and  then 
of  an  evening  I  have  inferred  that  these 
nominally  chance  encounters  are  not  confined 
wholly  to  the  day. 

By  simple  machinery  (of  which  the  motive- 
power  is  an  aged  patient  horse,  who  is  started 
and  left  then  to  his  own  devices;  and  who 
works  quite  honestly,  save  that  now  and 
then  he  stops  in  his  round  and  indulges  him- 
self in  a  little  doze)  the  well-water  is  raised 
continuously  into  a  long  stone  trough.  Thence 
the  overflow  is  led  away  to  irrigate  the  garden 
7 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


of  the  Chateau:  an  old-fashioned  garden,  on 
a  slope  declining  southward  and  westward, 
abounding  in  balustraded  terraces  and  stone 
benches  stiffly  ornate,  and  having  here  and 
there  stone  nymphs  and  goddesses  over  which 
in  summer  climbing  roses  kindly  (and  dis- 
creetly) throw  a  blushing  veil. 

The  dependent  estate  is  a  large  one :  lying 
partly  on  the  flanks  of  the  Alpilles,  and  ex- 
tending far  outward  from  the  base  of  the 
range  over  the  level  region  where  the  Rhone 
valley  widens  and  merges  into  the  valley  of 
the  Durance.  On  its  highest  slopes  are  strag- 
gling rows  of  almond  trees,  which  in  the  earty 
spring  time  belt  the  grey  mountains  with 
a  broad  girdle  of  delicate  pink  blossoms; 
a  little  lower  are  terraced  olive  -  orchards, 
a  pale  shimmering  green  the  year  round 
— the  olive  continuously  casting  and  renew- 
ing its  leaves;  and  the  lowest  level,  the  wide 
fertile  plain,  is  given  over  to  vineyards  and 
wheat-fields  and  fields  of  vegetables  (grown 
for  the  Paris  market),  broken  by  plantations 
of  fruit-trees  and  by  the  long  lines  of  green- 
black  cypress  which  run  due  east  and  west 
across  the  landscape  and  shield  the  tender 
8 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

growing  things  from  the  north  wind,  the 
mistral. 

The  Chateau  stands,  as  I  have  said,  well  up 
on  the  mountain-side;  and  on  the  very  spot 
(I  must  observe  that  I  am  here  quoting  its 
owner)  where  wTas  the  camp  in  which  Marius 
lay  with  his  legions  until  the  time  was  ripe 
for  him  to  strike  the  blow  that  secured  South- 
ern Gaul  to  Rome.  This  matter  of  Marius 
is  a  ticklish  subject  to  touch  on  with  the  Vi- 
dame:  since  the  fact  must  be  admitted  that 
other  antiquaries  are  not  less  firm  in  their 
convictions,  nor  less  hot  in  presenting  them, 
that  the  camp  of  the  Roman  general  was 
variously  elsewhere — and  all  of  them,  I  re- 
gret to  add,  display  a  lamentable  acerbity  of 
temper  in  scouting  each  other's  views.  In- 
deed, the  subject  is  of  so  irritating  a  com- 
plexion that  the  mere  mention  of  it  almost 
surely  will  throw  my  old  friend — who  in 
matters  not  antiquarian  has  a  sweetness  of 
nature  rarely  equalled — into  a  veritable  fum- 
ing rage. 

But  even  the  antiquaries  are  agreed  that, 
long  before  the  coming  of  the  Romans,  many 
earlier  races  successively  made  on  this  moun- 
9 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 


tain  promontory  overlooking  the  Rhone  delta 
their  fortified  home:  for  here,  as  on  scores 
of  other  defensible  heights  throughout  Prov- 
ence, the  merest  scratching  of  the  soil  brings 
to  light  flints  and  potshards  which  tell  of 
varied  human  occupancy  in  very  far  back 
times.  And  the  antiquaries  still  farther  are 
agreed  that  precisely  as  these  material  relics 
(only  a  little  hidden  beneath  the  present  sur- 
face of  the  soil)  tell  of  diverse  ancient  dwel- 
lers here,  so  do  the  surviving  fragments  of 
creeds  and  customs  (only  a  little  hidden  be- 
neath the  surface  of  Provencal  daily  life)  tell 
in  a  more  sublimate  fashion  of  those  same 
vanished  races  which  marched  on  into  Eter- 
nity in  the  shadowy  morning  of  Time. 

For  this  is  an  old  land,  where  many  peo- 
ples have  lived  their  spans  out  and  gone  on- 
ward— vet  have  not  passed  utterly  away. 
Far  down  in  the  popular  heart  remnants  of 
the  beliefs  and  of  the  habits  of  those  ancients 
survive,  entranced :  yet  not  so  numbed  but 
that,  on  occasion,  they  may  be  aroused  into  a 
life  that  still  in  part  is  real.  Even  now,  when 
the  touch-stone  is  applied — wrhen  the  thrilling 
of  some  nerve  of  memory  or  of  instinct  brings 

10 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

the  present  into  close  association  with  the 
past — there  will  flash  into  view  still  quick 
particles  of  seemingly  long-dead  creeds  or 
customs  rooted  in  a  deep  antiquity :  the  faiths 
and  usages  which  of  old  were  cherished  by 
the  Kelto-Ligurians,  Phoenicians,  Grecians, 
Romans,  Goths,  Saracens,  whose  blood  and 
whose  beliefs  are  blended  in  the  Christian 
race  which  inhabits  Provence  to-day. 


II 


In  the  dominion  of  Vielmur  there  is  an 
inner  empire.  Nominally,  the  Vidame  is  the 
reigning  sovereign ;  but  the  power  behind  his 
throne  is  Mise  Fougueiroun.  The  term 
"Mise"  is  an  old-fashioned  Provencal  title  of 
respect  for  women  of  the  little  bourgeoisie — 
tradesmen's  and  shopkeepers'  wives  and  the 
like — that  has  become  obsolescent  since  the 
Revolution  and  very  generally  has  given 
place  to  the  fine-ladyish  "Madamo."  With 
a  little  stretching,  it  may  be  rendered  by  our 
English  old-fashioned  title  of  "mistress"; 
and  Mise  Fougueiroun,  who  is  the  Vidame's 
ii 


Che  Christmas  Kaiends  of  Provence 


housekeeper,  is  mistress  over  his  household 
in  a  truly  masterful  way. 

This  personage  is  a  little  round  woman, 
still  plumply  pleasing  although  she  is  rising 
sixty,  who  is  arrayed  always  with  an  ex- 
quisite neatness  in  the  dress — the  sober  black- 
and-white  of  the  elder  women,  not  the  gay 
colours  worn  by  the  37oung  girls — of  the 
Pays  d'Arles;  and — although  shortness  and 
plumpness  are  at  odds  with  majesty  of  de- 
portment— she  has,  at  least,  the  peremptory 
manner  of  one  long  accustomed  to  command. 
As  is  apt  to  be  the  way  with  little  round  women, 
her  temper  is  of  a  brittle  cast  and  her  hasty 
rulings  sometimes  smack  of  injustice;  but 
her  nature  (and  this  also  is  characteristic  of 
her  type)  is  so  warmly  generous  that  her  heart 
easily  can  be  caught  into  kindness  on  the 
rebound.  The  Vidame,  who  in  spite  of  his 
antiquarian  testiness  is  something  of  a  philos- 
opher, takes  advantage  of  her  peculiarities 
to  compass  such  of  his  wishes  as  happen  to 
run  counter  to  her  laws.  His  Machiavellian 
policy  is  to  draw  her  fire  by  a  demand  of  an  ex- 
travagant nature;  and  then,  when  her  lively 
refusal  has  set  her  a  little  in  the  wrong,  hand- 
12 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

somely  to  ask  of  her  as  a  favour  what  he  really 
requires — a  method  that  never  fails  of  success. 

By  my  obviously  sincere  admiration  of 
the  Chateau  and  its  surroundings,  and  by  a 
discreet  word  or  two  implying  a  more  per- 
sonal admiration — a  tribute  which  no  woman 
of  the  Pays  d' Aries  ever  is  too  old  to  accept 
graciously — I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  win 
Mise  Fougueiroun's  favour  at  the  outset;  a 
fact  of  which  I  was  apprised  on  the  evening 
of  my  arrival — it  was  at  dinner,  and  the  house- 
keeper herself  had  brought  in  a  bottle  of  pre- 
cious Chateauneuf-du-Pape — by  the  cordiality 
with  which  she  joined  forces  with  the  Vidame 
in  reprobating  my  belated  coming  to  the 
Chateau.  Actually,  I  was  near  a  fortnight 
behind  the  time  named  in  my  invitation: 
which  had  stated  expressly  that  Christmas 
began  in  Provence  on  the  Feast  of  Saint 
Barbara,  and  that  I  was  expected  not  later 
than  that  day — December  4th. 

"Monsieur  should  have  been  here,"  said 
the  housekeeper  with  decision,  "when  we 
planted  the  blessed  Saint  Barbara's  grain. 
And  now  it  is  grown  a  full  span.  Monsieur 
will  not  see  Christmas  at  all!" 
13 


Che  Christmas    Kalends   of   Provence 

But  my  apologetic  explanation  that  I  never 
even  had  heard  of  Saint  Barbara's  grain 
only  made  my  case  the  more  deplorable. 

"Mai!"  exclaimed  Mise  Fougueiroun,  in 
the  tone  of  one  who  faces  suddenly  a  real 
calamity.  "  Can  it  be  that  there  are  no  Chris- 
tians in  monsieur's  America?  Is  it  possible 
that  down  there  they  do  not  keep  the  Christ- 
mas feast  at  all?" 

To  cover  my  confusion,  the  Vidame  inter- 
vened with  an  explanation  which  made  Amer- 
ica appear  in  a  light  less  heathenish.  "The 
planting  of  Saint  Barbara's  grain,"  he  said, 
"  is  a  custom  that  I  think  is  peculiar  to  the 
South  of  France.  In  almost  every  household 
in  Provence,  and  over  in  Languedoc  too,  on 
Saint  Barbara's  day  the  women  fill  two, 
sometimes  three,  plates  with  wheat  or  lentils 
which  they  set  afloat  in  water  and  then  stand 
in  the  warm  ashes  of  the  fire-place  or  on  a 
sunny  window  ledge  to  germinate  This  is 
done  in  order  to  foretell  the  harvest  of  the 
coming  j^ear,  for  as  Saint  Barbara's  grain 
grows  well  or  ill  so  will  the  harvest  of  the 
coming  year  be  good  or  bad;  and  also  that 
there  may  be  on  the  table  when  the  Great 
14 


PLANTING    SAINT    BARBARA  S    GRAIN 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

Supper  is  served  on  Christmas  Eve — that  is 
to  say,  on  the  feast  of  the  Winter  Solstice — 
green  growing  grain  in  symbol  or  in  earnest 
of  the  harvest  of  the  new  year  that  then  begins. 

"The  association  of  the  Trinitarian  Saint 
Barbara  with  this  custom,"  the  Vidame 
continued,  "I  fear  is  a  bit  of  a  makeshift. 
Were  three  plates  of  grain  the  rule,  some- 
thing of  a  case  would  be  made  out  in  her 
favour.  But  the  rule,  so  far  as  one  can  be 
found,  is  for  only  two.  The  custom  must  be 
of  Pagan  origin,  and  therefore  dates  from 
far  back  of  the  time  when  Saint  Barbara 
lived  in  her  three-windowed  tower  at  Heli- 
opolis.  Probably  her  name  was  tagged  to  it 
because  of  old  these  votive  and  prophetic 
grain-fields  were  sown  on  what  in  Christian 
times  became  her  dedicated  day.  But  what- 
ever light-mannered  goddess  may  have  been 
their  patroness  then,  she  is  their  patroness 
now;  and  from  their  sowing  we  date  the  be- 
ginning of  our  Christmas  least." 

It  was  obvious  that  this  explanation  of  the 

custom  went  much  too  far  for  Mise  Fouguei- 

roun.     At  the  mention  of  its  foundation  in 

Paganism  she  sniffed  audibly,  and  upon  the 

15 


Cbc  Christmas   Hal-ends  of   Provence 


Vidame's  reference  to  the  light-mannered 
goddess  she  drew  her  ample  skirts  primly 
about  her  and  left  the  room. 

The  Vidame  smiled.  "I  have  scandalized 
Mise,  and  to-morrow  I  shall  have  to  listen  to  a 
lecture/'  he  said;  and  in  a  moment  continued : 
"  It  is  not  eas\r  to  make  our  Provencaux  realize 
how  closely  we  are  linked  to  older  peoples  and 
to  older  times.  The  very  name  for  Christ- 
mas in  Proven  gal,  Calendo,  tells  how  this 
Christian  festival  lives  on  from  the  Roman 
festival  of  the  Winter  Solstice,  the  January 
Kalends;  and  the  beliefs  and  customs  which 
go  with  its  celebration  still  more  plainly 
mark  its  origin.  Our  farmers  believe,  for  in- 
stance, that  these  days  which  now  are  pass- 
ing— the  twelve  days,  called  coumlie,  immedi- 
ately preceding  Christmas — are  foretellers  of 
the  weather  for  the  new  twelve  months  to 
come;  each  in  its  turn,  by  rain  or  sunshine  or 
by  heat  or  cold,  showing  the  character  of  the 
correspondingly  numbered  month  of  the  new 
year.  That  the  twelve  prophetic  days  are 
those  which  immediately  precede  the  solstice 
puts  their  endowment  with  prophetic  power 
very  far  back  into  antiquity.  Our  farmers, 
16 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

too,  have  the  saying,  'When  Christmas  falls 
on  a  Friday  you  may  sow  in  ashes' — mean- 
ing that  the  harvest  of  the  ensuing  year  surely 
will  be  so  bountiful  that  seed  sown  anywhere 
will  grow;  and  in  this  sa3^ing  there  is  a  strong 
trace  of  Venus  worship,  for  Friday — Divendre 
in  Provencal — is  the  day  sacred  to  the  goddess 
of  fertility  and  bears  her  name.  That  belief 
comes  to  us  from  the  time  when  the  statue  of 
Aphrodite,  dug  up  not  long  since  at  Marseille, 
was  worshipped  here.  Our  Pater  de  Cal&ndo 
— our  curious  Christmas  prayer  for  abundance 
during  the  coming  year — clearly  is  a  Pagan 
supplication  that  in  part  has  been  diverted 
into  Christian  ways;  and  in  like  manner 
comes  to  us  from  Paganism  the  whole  of  our 
yule-log  ceremonial/' 

The  Vidame  rose  from  the  table.  "  Our  cof- 
fee will  be  served  in  the  library,"  he  said.  He 
spoke  with  a  perceptible  hesitation,  and  there 
was  anxiety  in  his  tone  as  he  added:  "Mise 
makes  superb  coffee;  but  sometimes,  when  I 
have  offended  her,  it  is  not  good  at  all."  And 
he  visibly  fidgeted  until  the  coffee  arrived, 
and  proved  by  its  excellence  that  the  house- 
keeper had  been  too  noble  to  take  revenge. 
17 


Cbe  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 


III 


In  the  early  morning  a  lively  clatter 
rising  from  the  farm -yard  came  through 
my  open  window,  along  with  the  sunshine 
and  the  crisp  freshness  of  the  morning  air. 
My  apartment  was  in  the  southeast  angle  of 
the  Chateau,  and  my  bedroom  windows — 
overlooking  the  inner  court — commanded  the 
view  along  the  range  of  the  Alpilles  to  the 
Luberoun  and  Mont -Ven tour,  a  pale  great 
opal  afloat  in  waves  of  clouds;  while  from 
the  windows  of  my  sitting  -  room  I  saw  over 
Mont-Majour  and  Aries  far  across  the  level 
Camargue  to  the  haz}^  horizon  below  which 
lay  the  Mediterranean. 

In  the  court -yard  there  was  more  than 
the  ordinary  morning  commotion  of  farm 
life,  and  the  buzz  of  talk  going  on  at  the  well 
and  the  racing  and  shouting  of  a  parcel  of 
children  all  had  in  it  a  touch  of  eagerness 
and  expectancy.  While  I  still  was  drinking 
my  coffee — in  the  excellence  and  delicate  ser- 
vice of  which  I  recognized  the  friendly  hand 
18 


ClK  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

of  Mise  Fougueiroun — there  came  a  knock  at 
my  door;  and,  upon  my  answer,  the  Vidame 
entered — looking  so  elate  and  wearing  so 
blithe  an  air  that  he  easily  might  have  been 
mistaken  for  a  frolicsome  middle-aged  sun- 
beam. 

"Hurry!  Hurry!"  he  cried,  while  still 
shaking  both  my  hands.  "This  is  a  day  of 
days — we  are  going  now  to  bring  home  the 
cacho-fib,  the  yule-log!  Put  on  a  pair  of 
heavy  shoes — the  walking  is  rough  on  the 
mountain-side.  But  be  quick,  and  come 
down  the  moment  that  you  are  ready.  Now 
I  must  be  off.  There  is  a  world  for  me  to  do!" 
And  the  old  gentleman  bustled  out  of  the 
room  while  he  still  was  speaking,  and  in  a 
few  moments  I  heard  him  giving  orders  to 
some  one  with  great  animation  on  the  terrace 
below. 

When  I  went  down  stairs,  five  minutes 
later,  I  found  him  standing  in  the  hall  by  the 
open  doorway :  through  which  I  saw,  bright 
in  the  morning  light  across  the  level  landscape, 
King  Rene's  castle  and  the  church  of  Sainte- 
Marthe  in  Tarascon ;  and  over  beyond  Taras- 
con,  high  on  the  farther  bank  of  the  Rhone, 
19 


ClK  Christmas  Kalends  of  Propence 

Count  Raymond's  castle  of  Beaucaire;  and 
in  the  far  distance,  faintly,  the  jagged  peaks 
of  the  Cevennes. 

But  that  was  no  time  for  looking  at  land- 
scapes. "Come  along!"  he  cried.  "They 
all  are  waiting  for  us  at  the  Mazet,"  and  he 
hurried  me  down  the  steps  to  the  terrace  and 
so  around  to  the  rear  of  the  Chateau,  talking 
away  eagerly  as  we  walked. 

"It  is  a  most  important  matter,"  he  said, 
"this  bringing  home  of  the  cacho-fid.  The 
whole  family  must  take  part  in  it.  The  head 
of  the  family — the  grandfather,  the  father,  or 
the  eldest  son — must  cut  the  tree ;  all  the  others 
must  share  in  carrying  home  the  log  that  is  to 
make  the  Christmas  fire.  And  the  tree  must 
be  a  fruit-bearing  tree.  With  us  it  usually  is 
an  almond  or  an  olive.  The  olive  especial- 
ly is  sacred.  Our  people,  getting  their  faith 
from  their  Greek  ancestors,  believe  that  light- 
ning never  strikes  it.  But  an  apple-tree  or  a 
pear-tree  will  serve  the  purpose,  and  up  in 
the  Alp  region  they  burn  the  acorn-bearing 
oak.  What  we  shall  do  to-day  is  an  echo  of 
Druidical  ceremonial — of  the  time  when  the 
Druid  priests  cut  the  yule-oak  and  with  their 
20 


€1k  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

golden  sickles  reaped  the  sacred  mistletoe; 
but  old  Jan  here,  who  is  so  stiff  for  preserving 
ancient  customs,  does  not  know  that  this 
custom,  like  many  others  that  he  stands  for, 
is  the  survival  of  a  rite." 

While  the  Vidame  was  speaking  we  had 
turned  from  the  terrace  and  were  nearing  the 
Mazet — which  diminutive  of  the  Provencal 
word  mas,  meaning  farm-house,  is  applied 
to  the  farm  establishment  at  Vielmur  partly 
in  friendliness  and  partly  in  indication  of  its 
dependence  upon  the  great  house,  the  Cha- 
teau. At  the  arched  entrance  we  found  the 
farm  family  awaiting  us :  Old  Jan,  the  stew- 
ard of  the  estate,  and  his  wife  Elizo;  Marius, 
their  elder  son,  a  man  over  fort}^  who  is  the 
active  manager  of  affairs;  their  younger  son, 
Esperit,  and  their  daughter  Nanoun;  and 
the  wife  of  Marius,  Janetoun,  to  whose  skirts 
a  small  child  was  clinging  while  three  or 
four  larger  children  scampered  about  her  in 
a  whir  of  excitement  over  the  imminent 
event  by  which  Christmas  really  would  be 
ushered  in. 

When  my  presentation  had  been  accom- 
plished— a  matter  a  little  complicated  in  the 

21 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

case  of  old  Jan,  who,  in  common  with  most  of 
the  old  men  hereabouts,  speaks  only  Pro- 
vencal— we  set  off  across  the  home  vineyard, 
and  thence  went  upward  through  the  olive- 
orchards,  to  the  high  region  on  the  mountain- 
side where  grew  the  almond-tree  which  the 
Vidame  and  his  steward  in  counsel  together 
had  selected  for  the  Christmas  sacrifice. 

Nanoun,  a  strapping  red-cheeked  black- 
haired  bounce  of  twenty,  ran  back  into  the 
Mazet  as  we  started;  and  joined  us  again, 
while  wre  were  crossing  the  vineyard,  bring- 
ing writh  her  a  gentle-faced  fair  girl  of  her 
own  age  who  came  shyly.  The  Vidame, 
calling  her  Magali,  had  a  cordial  v  ord  for 
this  new-comer;  and  nudged  me  to  bid  me 
mark  how  promptly  Esperit  was  by  her  side. 
"It  is  as  good  as  settled/'  he  whispered. 
"They  have  been  lovers  since  they  were 
children.  Magali  is  the  daughter  of  Elizo's 
foster-sister,  who  died  when  the  child  was 
born.  Then  Elizo  brought  her  home  to  the 
Mazet,  and  there  she  has  lived  her  whole  life- 
long. Esperit  is  waiting  only  until  he  shall 
be  established  in  the  world  to  speak  the  word. 
And  the  scamp  is  in  a  hurry.  Actually,  he 
22 


Che  Christmas  Kaun<2$  of  Provence 

is  pestering  me  to  put  him  at  the  head  of  the 
Lower  Farm!" 

The  Vidame  gave  this  last  piece  of  infor- 
mation in  a  tone  of  severity;  but  there  was  a 
twinkle  in  his  kind  old  eyes  as  he  spoke  which 
led  me  to  infer  that  Master  Esperit's  chances 
for  the  stewardship  of  the  Lower  Farm  were 
anything  but  desperate,  and  I  noticed  that 
from  time  to  time  he  cast  very  friendly 
glances  toward  these  young  lovers  —  as  our 
little  procession,  mounting  the  successive 
terraces,  went  through  the  olive-orchards 
along  the  hill-side  upward. 

Presently  we  were  grouped  around  the  de- 
voted almond-tree:  a  gnarled  old  personage, 
of  a  great  age  and  girth,  having  that  pathetic 
look  of  sorrowful  dignity  which  I  find  always 
in  superannuated  trees — and  now  and  then 
in  humans  of  gentle  natures  who  are  conscious 
that  their  days  of  usefulness  are  gone.  Es- 
perit,  who  was  beside  me,  felt  called  upon  to 
explain  that  the  old  tree  was  almost  past 
bearing  and  so  was  worthless.  His  expla- 
nation seemed  to  me  a  bit  of  needless  cruelty; 
and  I  was  glad  when  Magali,  evidently  moved 
by  the  same  feeling,  intervened  softly  with: 
23 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

"Hush,  the  poor  tree  may  understand!" 
And  then  added,  aloud:  "The  old  almond 
must  know  that  it  is  a  very  great  honour  for 
any  tree  to  be  chosen  for  the  Christmas  lire!" 

This  little  touch  of  pure  poetry  charmed 
me.  But  I  was  not  surprised  by  it — for  pure 
poetry,  both  in  thought  and  in  expression,  is 
found  often  among  the  peasants  of  Provence. 

Even  the  children  were  quiet  as  old  Jan 
took  his  place  beside  the  tree,  and  there  was  a 
touch  of  solemnity  in  his  manner  as  he  swung 
his  heavy  axe  and  gave  the  first  strong  blow 
— that  sent  a  shiver  through  all  the  branches, 
as  though  the  tree  realized  that  death  had 
overtaken  it  at  last.  When  he  had  slashed 
a  dozen  times  into  the  trunk,  making  a  deep 
gash  in  the  pale  red  wood  beneath  the  brown 
bark,  he  handed  the  axe  to  Marius ;  and  stood 
watching  silently  with  the  rest  of  us  while 
his  son  finished  the  work  that  he  had  begun. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  tree  tottered;  and  then 
fell  with  a  growling  death-cry,  as  its  brittle 
old  branches  crashed  upon  the  ground. 

Whatever  there  had  been  of  unconscious 
reverence  in  the  silence  that  attended  the 
felling  was  at  an  end.  As  the  tree  came  down 
24 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

everybody  shouted.  Instantly  the  children 
were  swarming  all  over  it.  In  a  moment  our 
little  company  burst  into  the  flood  of  loud 
and  lively  talk  that  is  inseparable  in  Pro- 
vence from  gay  occasions — and  that  is  ill  held 
in  check  even  at  funerals  and  in  church. 
They  are  the  merriest  people  in  the  world, 
the  Provencaux. 


IV 


Marius  completed  his  work  by  cutting 
through  the  trunk  again,  making  a  no- 
ble cacho-fid  near  five  feet  long — big  enough 
to  burn,  according  to  the  Provencal  rule,  from 
Christmas  Eve  until  the  evening  of  New 
Year's  Day. 

It  is  not  expected,  of  course,  that  the  log 
shall  burn  continuously.  Each  night  it  is 
smothered  in  ashes  and  is  not  set  a-blazing 
again  until  the  following  evening.  But  even 
when  thus  husbanded  the  log  must  be  a  big 
one  to  last  the  week  out,  and  it  is  only  in  rich 
households  that  the  rule  can  be  observed. 
Persons  of  modest  means  are  satisfied  if  they 
25 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  or  Presence 

can  keep  burning  the  sacred  fire  over  Christ- 
mas Day;  and  as  to  the  very  poor,  their  cacho- 
fib  is  no  more  than  a  bit  of  a  fruit-tree's  branch 
— that  barely,  bj'  cautious  guarding,  will  burn 
until  the  midnight  of  Christmas  Eve.  Yet 
this  suffices :  and  it  seems  to  me  that  there 
is  something  very  tenderly  touching  about 
these  thin  yule-twigs  which  make,  with  all 
the  loving  ceremonial  and  rejoicing  that 
might  go  with  a  whole  tree-trunk,  the  poor 
man's  Christmas  fire.  In  the  country,  the 
poorest  man  is  sure  of  his  cacho-fid.  The 
Proven  caux  are  a  kindly  race,  and  the  well- 
to-do  farmers  are  not  forgetful  of  their  poorer 
neighbors  at  Christmas  time.  An  almond- 
branch  always  may  be  had  for  the  asking; 
and  often,  along  with  other  friendly  gifts 
toward  the  feast,  without  any  asking  at  all. 
Indeed,  as  I  understood  from  the  Vidame's 
orders,  the  remainder  of  our  old  almond  was 
to  be  cut  up  and  distributed  over  the  estate 
and  about  the  neighborhood — and  so  the  life 
went  out  from  it  finally  in  a  Christmas  blaze 
that  brightened  many  homes.  In  the  cities, 
of  course,  the  case  is  different ;  and,  no  doubt, 
on  many  a  chill  hearth  no  yule-fire  burns. 
26 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

But  even  in  the  cities  this  kindly  usage  is 
not  unknown.  Among  the  boat-builders  and 
ship-wrights  of  the  coast  towns  the  custom 
long  has  obtained — being  in  force  even  in  the 
Government  dock-yard  at  Toulon — of  per- 
mitting each  workman  to  carry  away  a  cacho- 
fib  from  the  refuse  oak  timber;  and  an  equiv- 
alent present  frequently  is  given  at  Christ- 
mas time  to  the  labourers  in  other  trades. 

While  the  Vidame  talked  to  me  of  these 
genial  matters  we  were  returning  homeward, 
moving  in  a  mildly  triumphal  procession 
that  I  felt  to  be  a  little  tinctured  with  cere- 
monial practices  come  down  from  forgotten 
times.  Old  Jan  and  Marius  marching  in 
front,  Esperit  and  the  sturdy  Nanoun  march- 
ing behind,  carried  between  them  the  yule- 
log  slung  to  shoulder-poles.  Immediately  in 
their  wake,  as  chief  rejoicers,  the  Vidame  and 
I  walked  arm  in  arm.  Behind  us  came  Elizo 
and  Janetoun  and  Magali — save  that  the 
last  (manifesting  a  most  needless  solicitude 
for  Nanoun,  who  almost  could  have  carried 
the  log  alone  on  her  own  strapping  shoulders) 
managed  to  be  frequently  near  Esperit's  side. 
The  children,  waving  olive-branches,  career- 
27 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

ed  about  us;  now  and  then  going  through 
the  form  of  helping  to  carry  the  cacho-fib,  and 
all  the  while  shouting  and  singing  and  danc- 
ing— after  the  fashion  of  small  dryads  who 
also  were  partly  imps  of  j'03^.  So  we  came 
down  through  the  sun -swept,  terraced  olive- 
orchards  in  a  spirit  of  rejoicing  that  had  its 
beginning  very  far  back  in  the  world's  his- 
tory and  yet  was  freshly  new  that  day. 

Our  procession  took  on  grand  proportions, 
I  should  explain,  because  our  yule-log  was  of 
extraordinary  size.  But  always  the  yule-log 
is  brought  home  in  triumph.  If  it  is  small, 
it  is  carried  on  the  shoulder  of  the  father  or 
the  eldest  son ;  if  it  is  a  goodly  size,  those  two 
carry  it  together;  or  a  young  husband  and 
wife  may  bear  it  between  them — as  we  actually 
saw  a  thick  branch  of  our  almond  borne  away 
that  afternoon — while  the  children  caracole 
around  them  or  lend  little  helping  hands. 

Being  come  to  the  Mazet,  the  log  was  stood 
on  end  in  the  courtyard  in  readiness  to  be 
taken  thence  to  the  fire-place  on  Christmas 
Eve.  I  fancied  that  the  men  handled  it  with 
a  certain  reverence;  and  the  Vidame  assured 
me  that  such  actually  was  the  case.  Already, 
28 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Presence 

being  dedicate  to  the  Christmas  rite,  it  had 
become  in  a  way  sacred;  and  along  with  its 
sanctity,  according  to  the  popular  belief,  it 
had  acquired  a  power  which  enabled  it  sharply 
to  resent  anything  that  smacked  of  sacri- 
legious affront.  The  belief  was  well  rooted, 
he  added  by  way  of  instance,  that  any  one 
who  sat  on  a  yule-log  would  pay  in  his  person 
for  his  temerity  either  with  a  dreadful  stom- 
ach-ache that  would  not  permit  him  to  eat  his 
Christmas  dinner,  or  would  suffer  a  pest  of 
boils.  He  confessed  that  he  always  had 
wished  to  test  practically  this  superstition, 
but  that  his  faith  in  it  had  been  too  strong  to 
suffer  him  to  make  the  trial ! 

On  the  other  hand,  when  treated  reverently 
and  burned  with  fitting  rites,  the  yule-log 
brings  upon  all  the  household  a  blessing; 
and  when  it  has  been  consumed  even  its  ashes 
are  potent  for  good.  Infused  into  a  much- 
esteemed  country-side  medicine,  the  yule-log 
ashes  add  to  its  efficacy;  sprinkled  in  the 
chicken-house  and  cow-stable,  they  ward  off 
disease;  and,  being  set  in  the  linen-closet,  they 
are  an  infallible  protection  against  fire.  Prob- 
ably this  last  property  has  its  genesis  in  the 
29 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

belief  that  live-coals  from  the  yule-log  may  be 
placed  on  the  linen  cloth  spread  for  the  Great 
Supper  without  setting  it  on  fire  —  a  belief 
which  prudent  housewives  always  are  shy  of 
putting  to  a  practical  test. 

The  home-bringing  ceremony  being  thus 
ended,  we  walked  back  to  the  Chateau  to- 
gether— startling  Esperit  and  Magali  stand- 
ing hand  in  hand,  lover -like,  in  the  arch- 
way; and  when  we  were  come  to  the  ter- 
race, and  were  seated  snugly  in  a  sunny 
corner,  the  Vidame  told  me  of  a  very  stately 
yule-log  gift  that  was  made  anciently  in  Aix 
— and  very  likely  elsewhere  also — in  feudal 
times. 

In  Aix  it  was  the  custom,  when  the  Counts 
of  Provence  still  lived  and  ruled  there,  for  the 
magistrates  of  the  city  each  year  at  Christ- 
mas-tide to  carry  in  solemn  procession  a  huge 
cacho-fib  to  the  palace  of  their  sovereign;  and 
there  formally  to  present  to  him — or,  in  his 
absence,  to  the  Grand  Seneschal  on  his  be- 
half— this  their  free-will  and  good-will  offer- 
ing. And  when  the  ceremony  of  presenta- 
tion was  ended  the  city  fathers  were  served 
with  a  collation  at  the  Count's  charges,  and 
30 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

were  given   the  opportunity   to  pledge  him 
loj^ally  in  his  own  good  wine. 

Knowing  Aix  well,  I  was  able  to  fill  in  the 
outlines  of  the  Vidame's  bare  statement  of 
fact  and  also  to  give  it  a  background.  What 
a  joy  the  procession  must  have  been  to  see! 
The  grey-bearded  magistrates,  in  their  vel- 
vet caps  and  robes,  wearing  their  golden 
chains  of  office;  the  great  log,  swung  to  shoul- 
der -  poles  and  borne  by  leathern  -  jerkined 
henchmen;  surely  drummers  and  fifers,  for 
such  a  ceremonial  would  have  been  impossi- 
bty  incomplete  in  Provence  without  a  tam- 
bourin  and  galoubet  ;  doubtless  a  brace  of 
ceremonial  trumpeters;  and  a  seemly  guard 
in  front  and  rear  of  steel-capped  and  steel- 
jacketed  halbardiers.  All  these  marching  gal- 
lantly through  the  narrow,  yet  stately,  Aix 
streets;  with  comfortable  burghers  and  well- 
rounded  matrons  in  the  doorways  looking 
on,  and  pretty  faces  peeping  from  upper  win- 
dows and  going  all  a-blushing  because  of  the 
over-bold  glances  of  the  men-at-arms!  And 
then  fancy  the  presentation  in  the  great  hall 
of  the  castle;  and  the  gay  feasting;  and  the 
merry  wagging  of  grey-bearded  chins  as  the 
3i 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

magistrates  cried  all  together,  "To  the  health 
of  the  Count!" — and  tossed  their  wine! 

I  protest  that  I  grew  quite  melancholy  as  I 
thought  how  delightful  it  all  was — and  how 
utterly  impossible  it  all  is  in  these  our  own 
dull  times!  In  truth  I  never  can  dwell  upon 
such  genially  picturesque  doings  of  the  past 
without  feeling  that  Fate  treated  me  very 
shabbily  in  not  making  me  one  of  my  own 
ancestors — and  so  setting  me  back  in  that 
hard  -  fighting,  gay  -  going,  and  eminently 
light-opera  age. 


As  Christmas  Day  drew  near  I  observed 
that  Mise  Fougueiroun  walked  thought- 
fully and  seemed  to  be  oppressed  by  heavy 
cares.  When  I  met  her  on  the  stairs  or  about 
the  passages  her  eyes  had  the  far-off  look  of 
eyes  prying  into  a  portentous  future;  and 
when  I  spoke  to  her  she  recovered  her  wan- 
dering wits  with  a  start.  At  first  I  feared 
that  some  grave  misfortune  had  overtaken 
her;  but  I  was  reassured,  upon  applying 
32 


CDe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Propcncc 

myself  to  the  Vidame,  by  finding  that  her 
seeming  melancholy  distraction  was  due 
solely  to  the  concentration  of  all  her  faculties 
upon  the  preparation  of  the  Christmas  feast. 
Her  case,  he  added,  was  not  singular.  It 
was  the  same  just  then  with  all  the  house- 
wives of  the  region:  for  the  chief  ceremonial 
event  of  Christmas  in  Provence  is  the  Gros 
Soupa  that  is  eaten  upon  Christmas  Eve, 
and  of  even  greater  culinary  importance  is 
the  dinner  that  is  eaten  upon  Christmas  Day 
— wherefore  does  every  woman  brood  and 
labour  that  her  achievement  of  those  meals 
may  realize  her  high  ideal!  Especially  does 
the  preparation  of  the  Great  Supper  compel 
exhaustive  thought.  Being  of  a  vigil,  the 
supper  necessarily  is  "lean";  and  custom 
has  fixed  unalterably  the  principal  dishes  of 
which  it  must  be  composed.  Thus  limited 
straitly,  the  making  of  it  becomes  a  struggle 
of  genius  against  material  conditions;  and 
its  successful  accomplishment  is  comparable 
with  the  perfect  presentment  by  a  great  poet 
of  some  well-worn  elemental  truth  in  a  sonnet 
— of  which  the  triumphant  beauty  comes  less 
from  the  integral  concept  than  from  the  ex- 
3  33 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

quisite  felicity  of  expression  that  gives  fresh- 
ness to  a  hackneyed  subject  treated  in  ac- 
cordance with  severely  constraining  rules. 

It  is  no  wonder,  therefore,  that  the  Pro- 
vencal housewives  give  the  shortest  of  the 
December  dajTs  to  soulful  creation  in  the 
kitchen,  and  the  longest  of  the  December 
nights  to  searching  for  inspired  culinary 
guidance  in  dreams.  They  take  such  things 
very  serious^,  those  good  women:  nor  is 
their  seriousness  to  be  wondered  at  when  we 
reflect  that  Saint  Martha,  of  blessed  memory, 
ended  her  days  here  in  Provence;  and  that 
this  notable  saint,  after  delivering  the  coun- 
try from  the  ravaging  Tarasque,  no  doubt  set 
up  in  her  own  house  at  Tarascon  an  ideal 
standard  of  housekeeping  that  still  is  in  force. 
Certainly,  the  women  of  this  region  pattern 
themselves  so  closely  upon  their  sainted 
model  as  to  be  even  more  cumbered  with 
much  serving  than  are  womenkind  else- 
where. 

Because  of  the  Vidame's  desolate  bachelor- 
hood, the  kindly  custom  long  ago  was  estab- 
lished that  he  and  all  his  household  every 
year  should  eat  their  Great  Supper  with  the 
34 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

farm  famity  at  the  Mazet;  an  arrangement 
that  did  not  work  well  until  Mise  Fougueiroun 
and  Elizo  (after  some  years  of  spirited  squab- 
bling) came  to  the  agreement  that  the  former 
should  be  permitted  to  prepare  the  delicate 
sweets  served  for  dessert  at  that  repast.  Of 
these  the  most  important  is  nougat,  without 
which  Christmas  would  be  as  barren  in  Pro- 
vence as  Christmas  would  be  in  England 
without  plum-pudding  or  in  America  without 
mince-pies.  Besides  being  sold  in  great  quan- 
tities by  town  confectioners,  nougat  is  made 
in  most  country  homes.  Even  the  dwellers 
on  the  poor  up-land  farms — which,  being 
above  the  reach  of  irrigation,  yield  uncertain 
harvests — have  their  own  almond- trees  and 
their  own  bees  to  make  them  honey,  and  so 
possess  the  raw  materials  of  this  necessary 
luxury.  As  for  the  other  sweets,  they  may 
be  anything  that  fancy  and  skill  together 
can  achieve;  and  it  is  in  this  ornate  depart- 
ment of  the  Great  Supper  that  genius  has  its 
largest  chance. 

But  it  was  the  making  of  the  Christmas 
dinner  that  mainly  occupied  Mise  Fouguei- 
roun's  mind — a  feast  pure  and  simple,  gov- 
35 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

erned  by  the  one  jolly  law  that  it  shall  be  the 
very  best  dinner  of  the  whole  year!  What 
may  be  termed  its  by-laws  are  that  the  prin- 
cipal dish  shall  be  a  roast  turkey,  and  that 
nougat  and  poumpo  shall  figure  at  the  dessert. 
Why  poumpo  is  held  in  high  esteem  by  the 
Provencaux  I  am  not  prepared  to  say.  It 
seemed  to  me  a  cake  of  only  a  humdrum 
qualit}7;  but  even  Mise  Fougueiroun  —  to 
whom  I  am  indebted  for  the  appended  recipe* 
— spoke  of  it  in  a  sincerely  admiring  and 
chop-smacking  way. 

Anciently  the  Christmas  bird  was  a  goose 
— who  was  roasted  and  eaten  ('twas  a  back- 
handed compliment!)  in  honour  of  her  an- 
cestral good  deeds.  For  legend  tells  that 
when  the  Kings,  led  by  the  star,  arrived  at 
the  inn-stable  in  Bethlehem  it  was  the  goose, 
alone  of  all  the  animals  assembled  there, 
who  came  forward  politely  to  make  them  her 

*  Recipe  for  Poumpo  :  Flour,  iol/z  oz.  ;  brown  sugar, 
2^/2  oz. ;  virgin  olive  oil  (probably  butter  would  an- 
swer), 3J4  oz. ;  the  white  and  the  yolk  of  one  egg.  Knead 
with  enough  water  to  make  a  firm  paste.  Fold  in 
three  and  set  to  rise  for  eight  or  ten  hours.  Shape 
for  baking,  gashing  the  top.  Bake  in  a  slow  oven. 
36 


Cne  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

compliments;  yet  failed  to  express  clearly 
her  good  intentions  because  she  had  caught  a 
cold,  in  the  chill  and  windy  weather,  and  her 
voice  was  unintelligibly  creaky  and  harsh. 
The  same  voice  ever  since  has  remained  to 
her,  and  as  a  farther  commemoration  of  her 
hospitable  and  courteous  conduct  it  became 
the  custom  to  spit  her  piously  on  Christmas 
Day. 

I  have  come  across  the  record  of  another 
Christmas  roast  that  now  and  then  was  served 
at  the  tables  of  the  rich  in  Provence  in  medi- 
aeval times.  This  was  a  huge  cock,  stuffed 
with  chicken-livers  and  sausage-meat  and 
garnished  with  twelve  roasted  partridges, 
thirty  eggs,  and  thirty  truffles :  the  whole 
making  an  alimentary  allegory  in  which  the 
cock  represented  the  year,  the  partridges  the 
months,  the  eggs  the  days,  and  the  truffles 
the  nights.  But  this  never  was  a  common 
dish,  and  not  until  the  turkey  appeared  was 
the  goose  rescued  from  her  annual  martyr- 
dom. 

The  date  of  the  coming  of  the  turkey  to 
Provence  is  uncertain.  Popular  tradition  de- 
clares that  the  crusaders  brought  him  home 
37 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

with  them  from  the  Indies!  Certainly,  he 
came  a  long  while  ago;  probably  very  soon 
after  Europe  received  him  from  America  as  a 
noble  and  perpetual  Christmas  present — and 
that  occurred,  I  think,  about  thirty  years  after 
Columbus,  with  an  admirable  gastronomic 
perception,  discovered  his  primitive  home. 

Ordinarily  the  Provencal  Christmas  turkey 
is  roasted  with  a  stuffing  of  chestnuts,  or  of 
sausage-meat  and  black  olives;  but  the  high 
cooks  of  Provence  also  roast  him  stuffed  with 
truffles — making  so  superb  a  dish  that  Brillat- 
Savarin  has  singled  it  out  for  praise.  Mise 
Fougueiroun's  method,  still  more  exquisite, 
was  to  make  a  stuffing  of  veal  and  fillet  of 
pork  (one-third  of  the  former  and  two-thirds 
of  the  latter)  minced  and  brayed  in  a  mortar 
with  a  seasoning  of  salt  and  pepper  and  herbs, 
to  which  truffles  cut  in  quarters  were  added 
with  a  lavish  hand.  For  the  basting  she 
used  a  piece  of  salt-pork  fat  stuck  on  a  long 
fork  and  set  on  fire.  From  this  the  flaming 
juice  was  dripped  judiciously  over  the  roast, 
with  resulting  little  puffings  of  brown  skin 
which  permitted  the  savour  of  the  salt  to  pene- 
trate the  flesh  and  so  gave  to  it  a  delicious 
38 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

crispness  and  succulence.  As  to  the  flavour 
of  a  turke}7  thus  cooked,  no  tongue  can  tell 
what  any  tongue  blessed  to  taste  of  it  may 
know!  Of  the  minor  dishes  served  at  the 
Christmas  dinner  it  is  needless  to  speak. 
There  is  nothing  ceremonial  about  them; 
nothing  remarkable  except  their  excellence 
and  their  profusion.  Save  that  they  are 
daintier,  they  are  much  the  same  as  Christ- 
mas dishes  in  other  lands. 

While  the  preparation  of  all  these  things 
was  forward,  a  veritable  culinary  tornado 
raged  in  the  lower  regions  of  the  Chateau. 
Both  Magali  and  the  buxom  Nanoun  were 
summoned  to  serve  under  the  housekeeper's 
banners,  and  I  was  told  that  they  esteemed 
as  a  high  privilege  their  opportunity  thus  to 
penetrate  into  the  very  arcana  of  high  culinary 
art.  The  Vidame  even  said  that  Nanoun's 
matrimonial  chances — already  good,  for  the 
baggage  had  set  half  the  lads  of  the  country- 
side at  loggerheads  about  her — would  be  de- 
cidedly bettered  by  this  discipline  under  Mise 
Fougueiroun :  whose  name  long  has  been 
one  to  conjure  with  in  all  the  kitchens  be- 
tween Saint-Remy  and  the  Rhone.  For  the 
39 


Cbe   Christmas   Helenas  of   Provence 


Proven caux  are  famous  trencher-men,  and 
the  way  that  leads  through  their  gullets  is 
not  the  longest  way  to  their  hearts. 


VI 


But  in  spite  of  their  eager  natural  love 
for  all  good  things  eatable,  the  Provencaux 
also  are  poets;  and,  along  with  the  cooking, 
another  matter  was  in  train  that  was  wholly 
of  a  poetic  cast.  This  was  the  making  of  the 
creche:  a  representation  with  odd  little  fig- 
ures and  accessories  of  the  personages  and 
scene  of  the  Nativity — the  whole  at  once  so 
naive  and  so  tender  as  to  be  possible  only 
among  a  people  blessed  with  rare  sweetness 
and  rare  simplicity  of  soul. 

The  making  of  the  creche  is  especially  the 
children's  part  of  the  festival — though  the 
elders  always  take  a  most  lively  interest  in 
it — and  a  couple  of  days  before  Christmas,  as 
we  were  returning  from  one  of  our  walks,  we 
fell  in  with  all  the  farm  children  coming  home- 
ward from  the  mountains  laden  with  creche- 
making  material :  mosses,  lichens,  laurel,  and 
40 


ClK  Christmas  KaUflds  of  Provence 

holly;  this  last  of  smaller  growth  than  our 
holly,  but  bearing  fine  red  berries,  which  in 
Proven  gal  are  called  li  poumeto  de  S  ant- 
Jan — "the  little  apples  of  Saint  John." 

Our  expedition  had  been  one  of  the  many 
that  the  Vidame  took  me  upon  in  order  that 
he  might  expound  his  geographical  reasons 
for  believing  in  his  beloved  Roman  Camp; 
and  this  diversion  enabled  me  to  escape  from 
Marius — I  fear  with  a  somewhat  unseemly 
precipitation — by  pressing  him  for  informa- 
tion in  regard  to  the  matter  which  the  chil- 
dren had  in  hand.  As  to  openly  checking 
the  Vidame,  when  once  he  fairly  is  astride  of 
his  hobby,  the  case  is  hopeless.  To  cast  a 
doubt  upon  even  the  least  of  his  declarations 
touching  the  doings  of  the  Roman  General  is 
the  signal  for  a  blaze  of  arguments  down  all 
his  battle  front ;  and  I  really  do  not  like  even 
to  speculate  upon  what  might  happen  were  I 
to  meet  one  of  his  major  propositions  with  a 
flat  denial!  But  an  attack  in  flank,  I  find — 
the  sudden  posing  of  a  question  upon  some 
minor  antiquarian  theme — usually  can  be 
counted  upon,  as  in  this  instance,  to  draw 
him  outside  the  Roman  lines.  Yet  that  he 
4i 


Coc   Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

left  them  with  a  pained  reluctance  was  so 
evident  that  I  could  not  but  feel  some  twinges 
of  remorse — until  my  interest  in  what  he  told 
me  made  me  forget  my  heartlessness  in  shunt- 
ing to  a  side  track  the  subject  on  which  he  so 
loves  to  talk. 

In  a  way,  the  creche  takes  in  Provence  the 
place  of  the  Christmas-tree,  of  which  Northern 
institution  nothing  is  known  here;  but  it  is 
closer  to  the  heart  of  Christmas  than  the  tree, 
being  touched  with  a  little  of  the  tender  beauty 
of  the  event  which  it  represents  in  so  quaint 
a  guise.  Its  invention  is  ascribed  to  Saint 
Francis  of  Assisi.  The  chronicle  of  his 
Order  tells  that  this  seraphic  man,  having 
first  obtained  the  permission  of  the  Holy  See, 
represented  the  principal  scenes  of  the  Nativ- 
ity in  a  stable;  and  that  in  the  stable  so  trans- 
formed he  celebrated  mass  and  preached  to 
the  people.  All  this  is  wholly  in  keeping  with 
the  character  of  Saint  Francis ;  and,  certainly, 
the  creche  had  its  origin  in  Italy  in  his  period, 
and  in  the  same  conditions  which  formed  his 
graciously  fanciful  soul.  Its  introduction 
into  Provence  is  said  to  have  been  in  the  time 
of  John  XXII. — the  second  of  the  Avignon 
42 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

Popes,  who  came  to  the  Pontificate  in  the 
year  131 6 — and  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Oratory 
of  Marseille:  from  which  centre  it  rapidly 
spread  abroad  through  the  land  until  it  be- 
came a  necessary  feature  of  the  Christmas 
festival  both  in  churches  and  in  homes. 

Obviously,  the  creche  is  an  offshoot  from 
the  miracle  plays  and  mysteries  which  had 
their  beginning  a  full  two  centuries  earlier. 
These  also  survive  vigorously  in  Provence  in 
the  "Pastouralo" :  an  acted  representation 
of  the  Nativity  that  is  given  each  year  during 
the  Christmas  season  by  amateurs  or  profes- 
sionals in  ever}7  city  and  town,  and  in  al- 
most every  village.  Indeed,  the  Pastouralo 
is  so  large  a  subject,  and  so  curious  and  so 
interesting,  that  I  venture  here  only  to  allude 
to  it.  Nor  has  it,  properly — although  so  in- 
tensely a  part  of  the  Provengal  Christmas — 
a  place  in  this  paper,  which  especially  deals 
with  the  Christmas  of  the  home. 

In  the  farm-houses,  and  in  the  dwellings 
of  the  middle-class,  the  creche  is  placed  al- 
ways in  the  living-room,  and  so  becomes  an 
intimate  part  of  the  family  life.  On  a  table 
set  in  a  corner  is  represented  a  rocky  hill-side 
43 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

— dusted  with  flour  to  represent  snow — rising 
in  terraces  tufted  with  moss  and  grass  and 
little  trees  and  broken  by  foot-paths  and  a 
winding  road.  This  structure  is  very  like  a 
Provencal  hill-side,  but  it  is  supposed  to  rep- 
resent the  rocky  region  around  Bethlehem. 
At  its  base,  on  the  left,  embowered  in  laurel 
or  in  holly,  is  a  wooden  or  pasteboard  repre- 
sentation of  the  inn;  and  beside  the  inn  is 
the  stable :  an  open  shed  in  which  are  grouped 
little  figures  representing  the  several  person- 
ages of  the  Nativity.  In  the  centre  is  the 
Christ-Child,  either  in  a  cradle  or  lying  on  a 
truss  of  straw;  seated  beside  him  is  the  Vir- 
gin; Saint  Joseph  stands  near,  holding  in 
his  hand  the  mystic  lily;  with  their  heads 
bent  down  over  the  Child  are  the  ox  and  the 
ass — for  those  good  animals  helped  with 
their  breath  through  that  cold  night  to  keep 
him  warm.  In  the  foreground  are  the  two 
ravi — a  man  and  a  woman  in  awed  ecstasy, 
with  upraised  arms — and  the  adoring  shep- 
herds. To  these  are  added  on  Epiphany 
the  figures  of  the  Magi — the  Kings,  as  they 
are  called  always  in  French  and  in  Provencal 
— with  their  train  of  attendants,  and  the  cam- 
44 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Propcttcc 

els  on  which  they  have  brought  their  gifts. 
Angels  (pendent  from  the  farm-house  ceiling) 
float  in  the  air  above  the  stable.  Higher  is  the 
Star,  from  which  a  ray  (a  golden  thread)  de- 
scends to  the  Christ-Child's  hand.  Over  all, 
in  a  glory  of  clouds,  hangs  the  figure  of  Je- 
hovah attended  by  a  white  dove. 

These  are  the  essentials  of  the  creche;  and 
in  the  beginning,  no  doubt,  these  made  the 
whole  of  it.  But  for  nearly  six  centuries  the 
delicate  imagination  of  the  Provencal  poets 
and  the  cruder,  but  still  poetic,  fancy  of  the 
Provencal  people  have  been  enlarging  upon 
the  simple  original :  with  the  result  that  two- 
score  or  more  figures  often  are  found  in  the 
creche  of  to-day. 

Either  drawing  from  the  quaintly  beautiful 
mediaeval  legends  of  the  birth  and  childhood 
of  Jesus,  or  directh7  from  their  own  quaintly 
simple  souls,  the  poets  from  early  times  have 
been  making  Christmas  songs  —  noels,  or 
nouve  as  they  are  called  in  Provencal — in 
which  new  subordinate  characters  have  been 
created  in  a  spirit  of  frank  realism,  and  these 
have  materialized  in  new  figures  surrounding 
the  creche.  At  the  same  time  the  fancy  of 
45 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

the  people,  working  with  a  still  more  naive 
directness  along  the  lines  of  associated  ideas, 
has  been  making  the  most  curiously  incon- 
gruous and  anachronistic  additions  to  the 
group. 

To  the  first  order  belong  such  creations  as 
the  blind  man,  led  by  a  child,  coming  to  be 
healed  of  his  blindness  by  the  Infant's  touch; 
or  that  of  the  young  mother  hurrying  to  offer 
her  breast  to  the  new-born  (in  accordance 
with  the  beautiful  custom  still  in  force  in 
Provence)  that  its  own  mother  may  rest  a 
little  before  she  begins  to  suckle  it;  or  that  of 
the  other  mother  bringing  the  cradle  of  which 
her  own  baby  has  been  dispossessed,  because 
of  her  compassion  for  the  poor  woman  at  the 
inn  whose  child  is  lying  on  a  truss  of  straw. 

But  the  popular  additions,  begotten  of  as- 
sociation of  ideas,  are  far  more  numerous 
and  also  are  far  more  curious.  The  hill-top, 
close  under  the  floating  figure  of  Jehovah, 
has  been  crowned  with  a  wind-mill — because 
wind-mills  abounded  anciently  on  the  hill- 
tops of  Provence.  To  the  mill,  naturallj7,  has 
been  added  a  miller — who  is  riding  down  the 
road  on  an  ass,  with  a  sack  of  flour  across  his 
46 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

saddle-bow  that  he  is  carrying  as  a  gift  to  the 
Holy  Family.  The  adoring  shepherds  have 
been  given  flocks  of  sheep,  and  on  the  hill- 
side more  shepherds  and  more  sheep  have 
been  put  for  company.  The  sheep,  in  asso- 
ciation with  the  ox  and  the  ass,  have  brought 
in  their  train  a  whole  troop  of  domestic  ani- 
mals— including  geese  and  turkeys  and  chick- 
ens and  a  cock  on  the  roof  of  the  stable ;  and 
in  the  train  of  the  camels  has  come  the  ex- 
traordinary addition  of  lions,  bears,  leopards, 
elephants,  ostriches,  and  even  crocodiles !  The 
Provencaux  being  from  of  old  mighty  hun- 
ters (the  tradition  has  found  its  classic  em- 
bodiment in  Tartarin),  and  hill-sides  being 
appropriate  to  hunting,  a  figure  of  a  fowler 
with  a  gun  at  his  shoulder  has  been  intro- 
duced; and  as  it  is  well,  even  in  the  case  of  a 
Provencal  sportsman,  to  point  a  gun  at  a  defi- 
nite object,  the  fowler  usually  is  so  placed  as 
to  aim  at  the  cock  on  the  stable  roof.  He 
is  a  modern,  yet  not  very  recent  addition,  the 
fowler,  as  is  shown  by  the  fact  that  he  carries 
a  flint  -  lock  fowling  -  piece.  Drumming  and 
fifing  being  absolute  essentials  to  every  sort 
of  Provencal  festivity,  a  conspicuous  figure 
47 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


always  is  found  playing  on  a  tambourin  and 
galoubct.  Itinerant  knife-grinders  are  an  old 
institution  here,  and  in  some  obscure  way — 
possibly  because  of  their  thievish  propensi- 
ties— are  associated  intimately  with  the  devil; 
and  so  there  is  either  a  knife-grinder  simple, 
or  a  devil  with  a  knife-grinder's  wheel.  Of 
old  it  was  the  custom  for  the  women  to  carry 
distaffs  and  to  spin  out.  thread  as  they  went 
to  and  from  the  fields  or  along  the  roads  (just 
as  the  women  nowadays  knit  as  they  walk), 
and  therefore  a  spinning-woman  always  is  of 
the  company.  Because  child  -  stealing  was 
not  uncommon  here  formerly,  and  because 
gypsies  still  are  plentiful,  there  are  three 
gypsies  lurking  about  the  inn  all  ready  to 
steal  the  Christ-Child  away.  As  the  inn- 
keeper naturally  would  come  out  to  investi- 
gate the  cause  of  the  commotion  in  his  stable- 
yard,  he  is  found,  with  the  others,  lantern  in 
hand.  And,  finally,  there  is  a  group  of  women 
bearing  as  gifts  to  the  Christ-Child  the  essen- 
tials of  the  Christmas  feast :  codfish,  chickens, 
carde,  ropes  of  garlic,  eggs,  and  the  great 
Christmas  cakes,  poumpo  and  fongasso. 
Many  other  figures  may  be,  and  often  are, 
48 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

added  to  the  group — of  which  one  of  the  most 
delightful  is  the  Turk  who  makes  a  solacing 
present  of  his  pipe  to  Saint  Joseph ;  but  all  of 
these  which  I  have  named  have  come  to  be 
now  quite  as  necessary  to  a  properly  made 
creche  as  are  the  few  which  are  taken  direct 
from  the  Bible  narrative:  and  the  congrega- 
tion surely  is  one  of  the  quaintest  that  ever 
poetry  and  simplic^  together  devised! 

In  Provencal  the  diminutive  of  saint  is 
santoun;  and  it  is  as  santouns  that  all  the 
personages  of  the  creche — including  the  whole 
of  the  purely  human  and  animal  contingent, 
and  even  the  knife-grinding  devil — are  known. 
They  are  of  various  sizes — the  largest,  used 
in  churches,  being  from  two  to  three  feet  high 
— and  in  quality  of  all  degrees:  ranging 
downward  from  real  magnificence  (such  as 
may  be  seen  in  the  seventeenth-century  Nea- 
politan creche  in  Room  V.  of  the  Musee  de 
Cluny)  to  the  rough  little  clay  figures  two 
or  three  inches  high  in  common  household 
use  throughout  Provence.  These  last,  sold 
by  thousands  at  Christmas  time,  are  as  crude 
as  they  well  can  be :  pressed  in  rude  moulds, 
dried  (not  baked),  and  painted  with  glaring 
4  49 


Che   Christmas   Kalends  of   Provence 


colours,  with  a  little  gilding  added  in  the  case 
of  Jehovah  and  the  angels  and  the  Kings. 

For  two  centuries  or  more  the  making  of 
clay  santouns  has  been  a  notable  industry  in 
Marseille.  It  is  largely  a  hereditary  trade  car- 
ried on  by  certain  families  inhabiting  that  an- 
cient part  of  the  city,  the  Quarter  of  Saint-Jean, 
which  lies  to  the  south  of  the  Vieux  Port.  The 
figures  sell  for  the  merest  trifle,  the  cheapest  for 
one  or  two  sous,  yet  the  Santoun  Fair — held 
annually  in  December  in  booths  set  up  in  the 
Cour-du-Chapitre  and  in  the  Allee-des-Capu- 
cins — is  of  a  real  commercial  importance ;  and 
is  also — what  with  the  oddly  whimsical  na- 
ture of  its  merchandise,  and  the  vast  enjoyment 
of  the  children  under  parental  or  grand-parent- 
al convoy  who  are  its  patrons — the  very  gay- 
est sight  in  that  city  of  which  gayety  is  the 
dominant  characteristic  the  whole  year  round. 


VII 


Not   until  "the   day  of    the    Kings,"  the 
Feast    of     the     Epiphany,     is     the    creche 
completed.     Then   are   added   to   the   group 
50 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Propcncc 

the  figures  of  the  three  Kings — the  Magi,  as 
we  call  them  in  English:  along  with  their 
gallant  train  of  servitors,  and  the  hump- 
backed camels  on  which  they  have  ridden 
westward  to  Bethlehem  guided  by  the  Star. 
The  Provencal  children  believe  that  they 
come  at  sunset,  in  pomp  and  splendour,  rid- 
ing in  from  the  outer  country,  and  on  through 
the  street  of  the  village,  and  in  through  the 
church  door,  to  do  homage  before  the  man- 
ger in  the  transept  where  the  Christ-Child 
lies.  And  the  children  believe  that  it  may 
be  seen,  this  noble  procession,  if  only  they 
may  have  the  good  fortune  to  hit  upon  the  road 
along  which  the  royal  progress  to  their  village 
is  to  be  made.  But  Mistral  has  told  about  all 
this  far  better  than  I  can  tell  about  it,  and  I 
shall  quote  here,  by  his  permission,  a  page 
or  two  from  the  "Memoirs"  which  he  is  writ- 
ing, slowly  and  lovingly,  in  the  between- 
whiles  of  the  making  of  his  songs: 

"To-morrow's   the  festival   of  the  Kings. 

This  evening  they  arrive.     If  3Tou  want  to 

see  them,  little  ones,  go  quickly  to  meet  them 

— and  take  presents  for  them,  and  for  their 

5i 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

pages,  and  for  the  poor  camels  who  have 
come  so  far!" 

That  was  what,  in  my  time,  the  mothers 
used  to  say  on  the  eve  of  Epiphany — and, 
zbu  !  all  the  children  of  the  village  would  be 
off  together  to  meet  "les  Rois  Mages,"  who 
were  coming  with  their  pages  and  their  cam- 
els and  the  whole  of  their  glittering  royal 
suite  to  adore  the  Christ-Child  in  our  church 
in  Maillane!  All  of  us  together,  little  chaps 
with  curly  hair,  pretty  little  girls,  our  sabots 
clacking,  off  we  would  go  along  the  Aries 
road,  our  hearts  thrilling  with  joy,  our  eyes 
full  of  visions.  In  our  hands  we  would  carry, 
as  we  had  been  bidden,  our  presents:  fou- 
gasso  for  the  Kings,  figs  for  the  pages,  sweet 
hay  for  the  tired  camels  who  had  come  so  far. 

On  we  would  go  through  the  cold  of  dying 
day,  the  sun,  over  beyond  the  Rhone,  dip- 
ping toward  the  Cevennes;  leafless  trees, 
red  in  low  sun-rays;  black  lines  of  cypress; 
in  the  fields  an  old  woman  with  a  fagot  on  her 
head;  beside  the  road  an  old  man  scratching 
under  the  hedge  for  snails. 

"Where  are  you  going,  little  ones?" 

"We  are  going  to  meet  the  Kings!"  And 
52 


Cbc  Cbristmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


on  we  would  run  proudly  along  the  white 
road,  while  the  shrewd  north  wind  blew  sharp 
behind  us,  until  our  old  church  tower  would 
drop  away  and  be  hidden  behind  the  trees. 
We  could  see  far,  far  down  the  wide  straight 
road,  but  it  would  be  bare!  In  the  cold  of 
the  winter  evening  all  would  be  dumb.  Then 
we  would  meet  a  shepherd,  wrapped  in  his 
long  brown  cloak  and  leaning  on  his  staff,  a 
silhouette  against  the  western  sky. 

"Where  are  you  going,  little  ones?" 

"We  are  going  to  meet  the  Kings!  Can 
you  tell  us  if  they  are  far  off?" 

"  Ah,  the  Kings.  Certainly.  They  are  over 
there  behind  the  cypresses.  They  are  com- 
ing.    You  will  see  them  soon." 

On  we  would  run  to  meet  the  Kings  so 
near,  with  our  fougasso  and  our  figs  and  our 
hay  for  the  hungry  camels.  The  day  would 
be  waning  rapidly,  the  sun  dropping  down 
into  a  great  cloud-bank  above  the  mountains, 
the  wind  nipping  us  more  shrewdly  as  it  grew 
still  more  chill.  Our  hearts  also  would  be 
chilling.  Even  the  bravest  of  us  would  be 
doubting  a  little  this  adventure  upon  which 
we  were  bound. 

53 


the  Christmas   Kalends  of  Produce 

Then,  of  a  sudden,  a  flood  of  radiant  glory 
would  be  about  us,  and  from  the  dark  cloud 
above  the  mountains  would  burst  forth  a 
splendour  of  glowing  crimson  and  of  royal 
purple  and  of  glittering  gold! 

"Les  Rois  Mages!  Les  Rois  Mages!"  we 
would  cry.  "They  are  coming!  They  are 
here  at  last!" 

But  it  would  be  only  the  last  rich  dazzle  of 
the  sunset.  Presently  it  would  vanish.  The 
owls  would  be  hooting.  The  chill  night 
would  be  settling  down  upon  us,  out  there 
in  the  bleak  country,  sorrowful,  alone.  Fear 
would  take  hold  of  us.  To  keep  up  our  cour- 
age a  little,  we  would  nibble  at  the  figs  which 
we  had  hoped  to  give  to  the  pages,  at  the 
fougasso  which  we  had  hoped  to  present  to 
the  Kings.  As  for  the  hay  for  the  hungry 
camels,  we  would  throw  it  away.  Shivering 
in  the  wintry  dusk,  we  would  return  sadly  to 
our  homes. 

And  when  we  reached  our  homes  again 
our  mothers  would  ask:  "Well,  did  you  see 
them,  the  Kings?" 

"No;  they  passed  by  on  the  other  side  of 
the  Rhone,  behind  the  mountains." 
54 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

"But  what  road  did  you  take?" 

"The  road  to  Aries." 

"Ah,  my  poor  child!  The  Kings  don't 
come  that  way.  They  come  from  the  East. 
You  should  have  gone  out  to  meet  them  on 
the  road  to  Saint-Remy.  And  what  a  sight 
you  have  missed!  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  was 
when  they  came  marching  into  Maillane — 
the  drums,  the  trumpets,  the  pages,  the  cam- 
els! Mon  Dieu,  what  a  commotion!  What 
a  sight  it  was!  And  now  they  are  in  the 
church,  making  their  homage  before  the 
manger  in  which  the  little  Christ-Child  lies. 
But  never  mind;  after  supper  you  shall  see 
them  all." 

Then  we  would  sup  quickly,  and  so  be  off 
to  the  church,  crowded  with  all  Maillane. 
Barely  would  we  be  entered  there  when  the 
organ  would  begin,  at  first  softly  and  then 
bursting  forth  formidably,  all  our  people  sing- 
ing with  it,  with  the  superb  noel : 

In  the  early  morning 
I  met  a  train 
Of  three  great  Kings  who  were,  going  on  a  journey  I 

High  up  before  the  altar,  directly  above 
the  manger  in   which   the  Christ-Child  was 

55 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

lying,  would  be  the  glittering  hello  estello ; 
and  making  their  homage  before  the  manger 
would  be  the  Kings  whom  it  had  guided 
thither  from  the  East:  old  white-bearded 
King  Melchior  with  his  gift  of  incense;  gal- 
lant young  King  Gaspard  with  his  gift  of 
treasure;  black  King  Balthazar  the  Moor 
with  his  gift  of  myrrh.  How  reverently  we 
would  gaze  on  them,  and  how  we  would  ad- 
mire the  brave  pages  who  carried  the  trains 
of  their  long  mantles,  and  the  hump-backed 
camels  whose  heads  towered  high  above  Saint 
Mary  and  Saint  Joseph  and  the  ox  and  the 
ass. 

Yes,  there  they  were  at  last — the  Kings! 

Many  and  many  a  time  in  the  after  years 
have  I  gone  a-walking  on  the  Aries  road  at 
nightfall  on  the  Eve  of  the  Kings.  It  is  the 
same  —  but  not  the  same.  The  sun,  over 
beyond  the  Rhone,  is  dipping  toward  the 
Cevennes;  the  leafless  trees  are  red  in  the 
low  sun -rays;  across  the  fields  stretch  the 
black  lines  of  cypress;  even  the  old  man,  as 
long  ago,  is  scratching  in  the  hedge  by  the 
roadside  for  snails.  And  when  darkness 
56 


Che  Christmas  Kaunas  of  Provence 

comes  quickly,  with  the  sun's  setting,  the 
owls  hoot  as  of  old. 

But  in  the  radiant  glory  of  the  sunset  I 
no  longer  see  the  dazzle  and  the  splendour  of 
the  Kings! 

"Which  way  went  they,  the  Kings?" 

"Behind  the  mountains!" 


VIII 

In  the  morning  of  the  day  preceding 
Christmas  a  lurking,  yet  ill-repressed,  ex- 
citement pervaded  the  Chateau  and  all  its 
dependencies.  In  the  case  of  the  Vidame 
and  Mise  Fougueiroun  the  excitement  did 
not  even  lurk:  it  blazed  forth  so  openly  that 
they  were  as  a  brace  of  comets  —  bustling 
violently  through  our  universe  and  drag- 
ging into  their  erratic  wakes,  away  from 
normal  orbits,  the  whole  planetary  system 
of  the  household  and  all  the  haply  intrusive 
stars. 

With  my  morning  coffee  came  the  expla- 
nation of  a  quite  impossible  smell  of  frying 
dough-nuts  which  had  puzzled  me  on  the  pre- 
57 


Che   £Dri$tma$  Kalends  of  Provence 

ceding  day:  a  magnificent  golden -brown 
fougasso,  so  perfect  of  its  kind  that  any  Pro- 
vencal of  that  region — though  he  had  come 
upon  it  in  the  sandy  wastes  of  Sahara — 
would  have  known  that  its  creator  was  Mise 
Fougueiroun.  To  compare  the  fougasso  with 
our  homely  dough-nut  does  it  injustice.  It  is 
a  large  flat  open  -  work  cake  —  a  grating 
wrought  in  dough — an  inch  or  so  in  thick- 
ness, either  plain  or  sweetened  or  salted,  fried 
delicately  in  the  best  olive-oil  of  Aix  or  Maus- 
sane.  It  is  made  throughout  the  winter, 
but  its  making  at  Christmas  time  is  of  obliga- 
tion; and  the  custom  obtains  among  the 
women  —  though  less  now  than  of  old  —  of 
sending  a  fougasso  as  a  Christmas  gift  to 
each  of  their  intimates.  As  this  custom 
had  in  it  something  more  than  a  touch  of 
vainglorious  emulation,  I  well  can  under- 
stand why  it  has  fallen  into  desuetude  in 
the  vicinity  of  Vielmur  —  where  Mise  Fou- 
gueiroun's  inspired  kitchening  throws  all 
other  cook-work  hopelessly  into  the  shade. 
As  I  ate  the  "horns"  (as  its  fragments 
are  called)  of  my  fougasso  that  morning, 
dipping  them  in  my  coffee  according  to  the 
58 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

prescribed  custom,  I  was  satisfied  that  it 
deserved  its  high  place  in  the  popular  es- 
teem. 

When  I  joined  the  Vidame  below  stairs  I 
found  him  under  such  stress  of  Christmas 
excitement  that  he  actually  forgot  his  usual 
morning  suggestion — made  always  with  an 
off-hand  freshness,  as  though  the  matter  were 
entirely  new — that  we  should  take  a  turn 
along  the  lines  of  the  Roman  Camp.  He 
was  fidgeting  back  and  forth  between  the 
hall  (our  usual  place  of  morning  meeting) 
and  the  kitchen:  torn  by  his  conflicting  de- 
sires to  attend  upon  me,  his  guest,  and  to 
take  his  accustomed  part  in  the  friendly  cere- 
mony that  was  going  on  below.  Presently 
he  compromised  the  divergencies  of  the  sit- 
uation, though  with  some  hesitation,  by 
taking  me  down  with  him  into  Mise  Fougueir- 
oun's  domain  —  where  he  became  frankly 
cheerful  when  he  found  that  I  was  well  re- 
ceived. 

Although   the   morning   still   was   young, 

work  on  the  estate  had  been  ended  for  the 

day,  and  about  the  door  of  the  kitchen  more 

than  a  score  of  labourers  were  gathered :  all 

59 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

with  such  gay  looks  as  to  show  that  some- 
thing of  a  more  than  ordinarily  joyous  nature 
was  in  train.  Among  them  I  recognized  the 
young  fellow  whom  we  had  met  with  his  wife 
carrying  away  the  yule-log;  and  found  that 
all  of  them  were  workmen  upon  the  estate 
who — either  being  married  or  having  homes 
within  walking  distance  —  were  to  be  f ur- 
loughed  for  the  day.  This  was  according  to 
the  Provencal  custom  that  Christmas  must 
be  spent  by  one's  own  fire -side;  and  it  also 
was  according  to  Provencal  custom  that  they 
were  not  suffered  to  go  away  with  empty 
hands. 

Mise  Fougueiroun — a  plump  embodiment 
of  Benevolence — stood  beside  a  table  on  which 
was  a  great  heap  of  her  own  fongasso,  and 
big  baskets  filled  with  dried  figs  and  almonds 
and  celery,  and  a  genial  battalion  of  bottles 
standing  guard  over  all.  One  by  one  the 
vassals  were  called  up — there  was  a  strong 
flavour  of  feudalism  in  it  all — and  to  each, 
while  the  Vidame  wished  him  a  "  Bdni  fdstof" 
the  housekeeper  gave  his  Christmas  portion: 
a  fougasso,  a  double-handful  each  of  figs  and 
almonds,  a  stalk  of  celery,  and  a  bottle  of 
60 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

vin  cue'' — the  cordial  that  is  used  for  the  liba- 
tion of  the  yule-log  and  for  the  solemn  yule- 
cup;  and  each,  as  he  received  his  portion, 
made  his  little  speech  of  friendly  thanks — 
in  several  cases  most  gracefully  turned — 
and  then  was  off  in  a  hurry  for  his  home. 
Most  of  them  were  dwellers  in  the  immediate 
neighbourhood;  but  four  or  five  had  before 
them  walks  of  more  than  twenty  miles,  with 
the  same  distance  to  cover  in  returning  the 
next  day.  But  great  must  be  the  difficulty 
or  the  distance  that  will  keep  a  Provencal 

*  Vin  cue,  literally  cooked  wine,  is  made  at  the 
time  of  the  vintage  by  the  following  recipe :  Boil  un- 
fermented  grape-juice  in  a  well  scoured  cauldron  [or 
porcelain-lined  vessel]  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  skim- 
ming thoroughly.  Pour  into  earthen  pans,  and  let 
it  stand  until  the  following  day.  Pour  again  into  the 
cauldron,  carefully,  so  as  to  leave  the  dregs,  and  boil 
until  reduced  to  one-half — or  less,  or  more,  according 
to  the  sweetness  desired.  A  good  rule  is  to  boil  in 
the  wine  a  quince  stuck  full  of  cloves — the  thorough 
cooking  of  the  quince  shows  that  the  wine  is  cooked  too. 
Set  to  cool  in  earthen  pans,  and  when  cold  bottle  and 
cork  and  seal.  The  Provencal  cooked-wine  goes  back 
to  Roman  times.  Martial  speaks  of  "  Cocta  fumis 
musta  Massiliensis." 

61 


Che   Christmas   Kalends  of   Provence 


from   his   own   people  and   his   own   hearth- 
stone at  Christmas-tide! 

In  illustration  of  this  home-seeking  trait, 
I  have  from  my  friend  Mistral  the  story  that 
his  own  grandfather  used  to  tell  regularly 
every  year  when  all  the  family  was  gath- 
ered about  the  yule-fire  on  Christmas  Eve : 

It  was  back  in  the  Revolutionary  times, 
and  Mistral  the  grandfather — only  he  was 
not  a  grandfather  then,  but  a  mettlesome 
young  soldier  of  two-and-twenty — was  serv- 
ing with  the  Army  of  the  Pyrenees,  down  on 
the  borders  of  Spain.  December  was  well  on, 
but  the  season  was  open  —  so  open  that  he 
found  one  day  a  tree  still  bearing  oranges. 
He  filled  a  basket  with  the  fruit  and  carried 
it  to  the  Captain  of  his  company.  It  was  a 
gift  for  a  king,  down  there  in  those  hard 
times,  and  the  Captain's  eyes  sparkled.  "  Ask 
what  thou  wilt,  mon  brave,"  he  said,  "and  if 
I  can  give  it  to  thee  it  shall  be  thine." 

Quick  as  a  flash  the  young  fellow  answered : 
"Before  a  cannon-ball  cuts  me  in  two,  Com- 
mandant, I  should  like  to  go  to  Provence  and 
help  once  more  to  lay  the  yule-log  in  my  own 
home.  Let  me  do  that!" 
62 


Che  Christmas  KaUnds  of  Provence 

Now  that  was  a  serious  matter.  But  the 
Captain  had  given  his  word,  and  the  word  of 
a  soldier  of  the  Republic  was  better  than  the 
oath  of  a  king.  Therefore  he  sat  down  at 
his  camp-table  and  wrote: 

Army  of  the  Eastern  Pyrenees,  December  12,  1793. 

We,  Perrin,  Captain  of  Military  Transport,  give 
leave  to  the  citizen  Francois  Mistral,  a  brave  Repub- 
lican soldier,  twenty-two  years  old,  five  feet  six  inches 
high,  chestnut  hair  and  eyebrows,  ordinary  nose, 
mouth  the  same,  round  chin,  medium  forehead,  oval 
face,  to  go  back  into  his  province,  to  go  all  over  the 
Republic,  and,  if  he  wants  to,  to  go  to  the  devil! 

"With  an  order  like  that  in  his  pocket," 
said  Mistral,  "you  can  fancy  how  my  grand- 
father put  the  leagues  behind  him;  and  how 
joyfully  he  reached  Maillane  on  the  lovely 
Christmas  Eve,  and  how  there  was  danger 
of  rib-cracking  from  the  hugging  that  went 
on.  But  the  next  day  it  was  another  matter. 
News  of  his  coming  had  flown  about  the 
town,  and  the  Mayor  sent  for  him. 

" '  In  the  name  of  the  law,  citizen,'  the  Mayor 
demanded,  'why  hast  thou  left  the  army?' 

"  Now  my  grandfather  was  a  bit  of  a  wag, 
and  so — with  never  a  word  about  his  famous 
63 


Cfte  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

pass — he  answered:  'Well,  you  see  I  took  a 
fancy  to  come  and  spend  my  Christmas  here 
in  Maillane.' 

"At  that  the  Mayor  was  in  a  towering 
passion.  '  Very  good,  citizen/  he  cried.  '  Other 
people  also  may  take  fancies — and  mine  is 
that  thou  shalt  explain  this  fancy  of  thine 
before  the  Military  Tribunal  at  Tarascon. 
Off  with  him  there!' 

"And  then  away  went  my  grandfather 
between  a  brace  of  gendarmes,  who  brought 
him  in  no  time  before  the  District  Judge:  a 
savage  old  fellow  in  a  red  cap,  with  a  beard 
up  to  his  eyes,  who  glared  at  him  as  he  asked  : 
'  Citizen,  how  is  it  that  thou  hast  deserted  thy 

flag?' 

"  Now  my  grandfather,  who  was  a  sensible 
man,  knew  that  a  joke  might  be  carried  too 
far;  therefore  he  whipped  out  his  pass  and 
presented  it,  and  so  in  a  moment  set  every- 
thing right. 

'"Good,  very  good,  citizen!'  said  old  Red- 
cap. 'This  is  as  it  should  be.  Thy  Captain 
says  that  thou  art  a  brave  soldier  of  the  Re- 
public, and  that  is  the  best  that  the  best  of  us 
ca^  be.  With  a  pass  like  that  in  thy  pocket 
64 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

thou  canst  snap  thy  fingers  at  all  the  mayors 
in  Provence;  and  the  devil  himself  had  best 
be  careful — shouldst  thou  go  down  that  way, 
as  thy  pass  permits  thee — how  he  trifles  with 
a  brave  soldier  of  France!' 

"  But  my  grandfather  did  not  try  the  devil's 
temper/'  Mistral  concluded.  "He  was  sat- 
isfied to  stay  in  his  own  dear  home  until  the 
Day  of  the  Kings  was  over,  and  then  he  went 
back  to  his  command." 


IX 


The  day  dragged  a  little  when  we  had 
finished  in  the  kitchen  with  the  giving 
of  Christmas  portions  and  the  last  of  the 
farm-hands,  calling  back  "  Bbni  festo! ',"  had 
gone  away.  For  the  womenkind,  of  course, 
there  was  a  world  to  do;  and  Mise  Fougueir- 
oun  whisked  us  out  of  her  dominions  with 
a  pretty  plain  statement  that  our  company 
was  less  desirable  than  our  room.  But  for 
the  men  there  was  only  idle  waiting  until 
night  should  come. 

As  for  the  Vidame — who  is  a  fiery  fume  of 
65 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

a  little  old  gentleman,  never  happy  unless  in 
some  way  busily  employed — this  period  of 
stagnation  was  so  galling  that  in  sheer  pity 
I  mounted  him  upon  his  hobby  and  set  him 
to  galloping  away.  'Twas  an  easy  matter, 
and  the  stimulant  that  I  administered  was 
rather  dangerously  strong :  for  I  brought  up 
the  blackest  beast  in  the  whole  herd  of  his 
abominations  by  asking  him  if  there  were 
not  some  colour  of  reason  in  the  belief  that 
Marius  lay  not  at  Vielmur  but  at  Glanum — 
now  Saint-Remy-de-Provence  —  behind  the 
lines  of  Roman  wall  which  exist  there  to  this 
day. 

So  far  as  relieving  the  strain  of  the  situa- 
tion was  concerned,  my  expedient  was  a  com- 
plete success;  but  the  storm  that  I  raised 
was  like  to  have  given  the  Vidame  such  an 
attack  of  bilious  indigestion  begotten  of  anger 
as  would  have  spoiled  the  Great  Supper  for 
him;  and  as  for  myself,  I  was  overwhelmed 
for  some  hours  by  his  avalanche  of  words. 
But  the  long  walk  that  we  took  in  the  after- 
noon, that  he  might  give  me  convincing 
proof  of  the  soundness  of  his  archaeological 
theories,  fortunately  set  matters  right  again; 
66 


Cfte  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

and  when  we  returned  in  the  late  day  to  the 
Chateau  my  old  friend  had  recovered  his 
normal  serenity  of  soul. 

As  we  passed  the  Mazet  in  our  afternoon 
walk,  we  stopped  to  greet  the  new  arrivals 
there,  come  to  make  the  family  gathering 
complete:  two  more  married  children,  with  a 
flock  of  their  own  little  ones,  and  Elizo's 
father  and  mother — a  bowed  little  rosy-cheeked 
old  woman  and  a  bowed  lean  old  man,  both 
well  above  eighty  years.  There  was  a  lively 
passage  of  friendly  greetings  between  them 
all  and  the  Vidame;  and  it  was  quite  delight- 
ful to  see  how  the  bowed  little  old  woman 
kindled  and  bridled  when  the  Vidame  gallant- 
ly protested  that  she  grew  younger  and  hand- 
somer every  year. 

A  tall  ladder  stood  against  the  Mazet,  and 
the  children  were  engaged  in  hanging  tiny 
wheat-sheaves  along  the  eaves :  the  Christ- 
mas portion  of  the  birds.  In  old  times,  the 
Vidame  explained,  it  was  the  general  cus- 
tom for  children  to  make  this  pretty  offering 
— that  the  birds  of  heaven,  finding  them- 
selves so  served,  might  descend  in  clouds  to 
the  feast  prepared  for  them  bv  Christian 
67 


CDe  Christmas  Kalends  or   Provence 

bounty.  But  nowadays,  he  added,  sighing, 
the  custom  rarely  was  observed. 

Other  charitable  usages  of  Christmas  had 
vanished,  he  continued,  because  the  need  for 
them  had  passed  away  with  the  coming  of 
better  times.  Save  in  the  large  cities,  there 
are  very  few  really  poor  people  in  Provence 
now.  It  is  a  rich  land,  and  it  gives  to  its 
hard-working  inhabitants  a  good  living; 
with  only  a  pinch  now  and  then  when  a  cold 
winter  or  a  dry  summer  or  a  wet  harvest 
puts  things  out  of  gear.  But  of  old  the  con- 
ditions were  sadly  different  and  there  was 
need  for  all  that  charity  could  give. 

In  those  times,  when  in  comfortable  homes 
the  Christmas  feast  was  set,  there  would  be 
heard  outside  a  plaintive  voice  calling  :  "  Give 
something  from  your  yule-log  to  the  sorrow- 
ful poor!"  And  then  the  children  quickly 
would  carry  out  to  the  calling  poor  one  good 
portions  of  food.  Pious  families,  also,  were 
wont  to  ask  some  poor  friend  or  acquaint- 
ance, or  even  a  poor  passing  stranger,  to  eat 
the  Great  Supper  with  them ;  and  of  the  frag- 
ments a  part  would  be  sent  to  the  poor  breth- 
ren in  the  Hostel  de  Dieu :  which  offerings 
68 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

were  called  always  "the  share  of  the  good 
God." 

In  many  towns  and  villages  the  offerings 
of  Christian  bounty  were  collected  in  a  curious 
way.  A  gigantic  figure  of  wicker-work — 
called  Melchior,  after  one  of  the  three  Kings 
of  the  Epiphany  —  clothed  in  a  grotesque 
fashion  and  with  a  huge  pannier  strapped  to 
his  back,  was  mounted  upon  an  ass  and  so 
was  taken  from  door  to  door  to  gather  for  the 
poor  whatever  the  generous  would  give  of 
food.  Into  the  big  basket  charitable  hands 
threw  figs,  almonds,  bread,  cheese,  olives, 
sausages :  and  when  the  brave  Melchior  had 
finished  his  round  his  basket  was  emptied 
upon  a  table  at  the  church  door,  and  then  all 
the  poor  people  of  the  parish  were  free  to  come 
there  and  receive  portions  of  those  good  things 
— while  the  church  bells  rang,  and  while 
there  blazed  beside  the  table  a  torch  in  rep- 
resentation of  the  Star  which  guided  Melchior 
and  his  fellow  kings  to  Bethlehem. 

A  reminiscence  of  this  general  charity  still 

survives  in  the  little  town  of  Sollies,  tucked 

away  in  the  mountains  not  far  from  Toulon. 

There,  at  Christmas  time,  thirteen  poor  peo- 

69 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

pie  known  as  "  the  Apostles"  (though  there 
is  one  to  spare)  receive  at  the  town-house  a 
dole  of  two  pounds  of  meat,  two  loaves  of 
bread,  some  figs  and  almonds,  and  a  few 
sous.  And  throughout  Provence  the  cus- 
tom still  is  general  that  each  well-to-do  fam- 
ily shall  send  a  portion  of  its  Christmas  loaf 
— the  pan  galendau — to  some  friend  or  neigh- 
bour to  whom  Fortune  has  been  less  kind. 
But,  happily,  this  gift  nowadays  often  is  a 
mere  friendly  compliment,  like  the  gift  of 
fougasso ;  for  the  times  are  past  when  weak- 
kneed  and  spasmodic  charity  dealt  with  real 
poverty  in  Provence. 


'Twas  with  such  kindly  reminiscences  of 
old-time  benevolence,  rather  than  with  explo- 
sive archaeological  matters,  that  I  kept  the 
Vidame  from  falling  again  a-fuming — while 
we  waited  through  the  dusk  for  the  coming 
of  seven  o'clock,  at  which  hour  the  festivities 
at  the  Mazet  were  to  begin.  Our  waiting 
place  was  the  candle-lit  salon :  a  stately  old 
70 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

apartment  floored  formally  with  squares  of 
black  and  white  marble,  furnished  in  the 
formal  style  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
hung  around  with  formal  family  portraits 
and  curious  old  prints  in  which  rather  lax 
classical  subjects  were  treated  with  a  formal 
severity.  The  library  being  our  usual  habi- 
tat, I  inferred  that  our  change  of  quarters 
was  in  honour  of  the  day.  It  was  much  to 
my  liking;  for  in  that  antiquely  ordered 
room — and  the  presence  of  the  Vidame  helped 
the  illusion — I  felt  always  as  though  I  had 
stepped  backward  into  the  thick  of  eighteenth 
century  romance.  But  for  the  Vidame,  al- 
though he  also  loves  its  old  time  flavour,  the 
salon  had  no  charms  just  then;  and  when 
the  glass-covered  clock  on  the  mantle  chimed 
from  among  its  gilded  cupids  the  three-quar- 
ters he  arose  with  a  brisk  alacrity  and  said 
that  it  was  time  for  us  to  be  off. 

Our  march — out  through  the  rear  door  of 
the  Chateau  and  across  the  court-yard  to  the 
Mazet — was  processional.  All  the  household 
went  with  us.  The  Vidame  gallantly  gave 
his  arm  to  Mise  Fougueiroun;  I  followed 
with  her  first  officer  —  a  sauce -box  named 
7i 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  or    Provence 

Mouneto,  so  plumply  provoking  and  charm- 
ing in  her  Arlesian  dress  that  I  will  not  say 
what  did  or  did  not  happen  in  the  darkness 
as  we  passed  the  well!  A  little  in  our  rear 
followed  the  house-servants,  even  to  the  least; 
and  in  the  Mazet  already  were  gathered, 
with  the  family,  the  few  work-people  of  the 
estate  who  had  not  gone  to  their  own  homes. 
For  the  Great  Supper  is  a  patriarchal  feast, 
to  which  in  Christian  fellowship  come  the 
master  and  the  master's  family  and  all  of 
their  servitors  and  dependants  on  equal  terms. 
A  broad  stream  of  light  came  out  through 
the  open  doorway  of  the  farm-house,  and 
with  it  a  great  clatter  and  buzz  of  talk — that 
increased  tenfold  as  we  entered,  and  a  cry  of 
"  Bdni  festo !"  came  from  the  whole  com- 
pany at  once.  As  for  the  Vidame,  he  so 
radiated  cordiality  that  he  seemed  to  be  the 
veritable  Spirit  of  Christmas  (incarnate  at  the 
age  of  sixty,  and  at  that  period  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  when  stocks  and  frilled  shirts 
were  worn),  and  his  joyful  old  legs  were  near 
to  dancing  as  he  went  among  the  company 
with  warm-hearted  greetings  and  outstretched 
hands. 

72 


Cne  Cfei'isttnas  Kalends  of  Provence 

All  told,  we  numbered  above  forty;  but 
the  great  living-room  of  the  Mazet,  notwith- 
standing the  space  taken  by  the  supper- 
table  ranged  down  the  middle  of  it,  easily 
could  have  held  another  score.  Save  in  its 
size,  and  in  the  completeness  of  its  appoint- 
ments, this  room  was  thoroughly  typical  of 
the  main  apartment  found  in  farm-houses 
throughout  Provence.  The  floor  was  laid 
with  stone  slabs  and  the  ceiling  was  sup- 
ported upon  very  large  smoke-browned  beams 
— from  which  hung  hams,  and  strings  of 
sausages,  and  ropes  of  garlic,  and  a  half- 
dozen  bladders  filled  with  lard.  More  than 
a  third  of  the  rear  wall  was  taken  up  by  the 
huge  fire-place,  that  measured  ten  feet  across 
and  seven  feet  from  the  stone  mantle-shelf  to 
the  floor.  In  its  centre,  with  room  on  each 
side  in  the  chimne3T-corners  for  a  chair  (a 
space  often  occupied  by  large  lockers  for  flour 
and  salt),  was  the  fire-bed  —  crossed  by  a 
pair  of  tall  andirons,  which  flared  out  at  the 
top  into  little  iron  baskets  (often  used,  with 
a  filling  of  live  coals,  as  plate- warmers) 
and  which  were  furnished  with  hooks  at 
different  heights  to  support  the  roasting- 
73 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

spits.  Hanging  from  the  mantle-shelf  was 
a  short  curtain  to  hold  the  smoke  in 
check;  and  on  the  shelf  were  various  utili- 
tarian ornaments:  a  row  of  six  covered  jars, 
of  old  faience,  ranging  in  holding  capacity 
from  a  gill  to  three  pints,  each  lettered  with 
the  name  of  its  contents — saffron,  pepper, 
tea,  salt,  sugar,  flour;  and  with  these  some 
burnished  copper  vessels,  and  a  coffee-pot, 
and  a  half-dozen  of  the  tall  brass  or  pewter 
lamps  for  burning  olive-oil — which  long  ago 
superseded  the  primitive  cal&u,  dating  from 
Roman  or  from  still  earlier  times,  and  which 
now  themselves  practically  have  been  super- 
seded by  lamps  burning  petroleum. 

To  the  right  of  the  fire-place  was  the  stone 
sink,  with  shelves  above  it  on  which  was  a 
brilliant  array  of  polished  copper  and  tin 
pots  and  pans.  To  the  left  was  the  covered 
bread-trough,  above  which  hung  the  large 
salt  and  flour  boxes  and  the  grated  bread- 
closet — this  last  looking  like  a  child's  crib 
gone  wrong — all  of  dark  wood  ornamented 
with  carving  and  with  locks  and  hinges  of 
polished  iron.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the 
room,  matching  these  pieces  in  colour  and 
74 


the  Christmas  Kakn>q>  of  Proocncc 

carving  and  polished  iron-work,  were  a  tall 
buffet  and  a  tall  clock — the  clock  of  so  insist- 
ent a  temperament  that  it  struck  in  duplicate, 
at  an  interval  of  a  minute,  the  number  of  each 
hour.  A  small  table  stood  in  a  corner,  and 
in  ordinary  times  the  big  dining  -  table 
was  ranged  along  one  of  the  walls,  with 
benches  on  each  side  of  it  supplemented  by 
rush-bottomed  chairs.  Near  the  bread-trough 
was  hung  a  long-armed  steel-balance  with  a 
brass  dish  suspended  by  brass  chains,  all 
brilliant  from  scouring  with  soap  and  sand; 
an  ancient  fowling-piece  rested  in  wooden 
crutches  driven  between  the  stones  on  one 
side  of  the  clock,  and  on  the  other  side  was 
hung  a  glittering  copper  warming-pan — a 
necessary  comfort  here  of  cold  nights  in  fire- 
less  rooms.  By  way  of  ornament,  three  or 
four  violently-colored  lithographs  were  tacked 
against  the  walls,  together  with  a  severelj7 
formal  array — a  pyramidal  trophy — of  fam- 
ily photographs. 

Excepting  the  warming-pan   and  the  two 
arm-chairs    ordinarily    in    the    chimney-cor- 
ners, there  was  no  provision  in  the  room  for 
bodily  ease  or  comfort:  a  lack  unperceived 
75 


the  Cftrlstmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

by  its  occupants,  but  which  an  American 
house-wife — missing  her  many  small  lux- 
uries and  conveniences — would  have  found 
sharply  marked. 


XI 


The  creche,  around  which  the  children 
were  gathered  in  a  swarm,  was  built  up  in 
one  corner;  and  our  coming  was  the  signal 
for  the  first  of  the  ceremonies,  the  lighting  of 
the  creche  candles,  to  begin.  In  this  all  the 
children  had  a  part — making  rather  a  scram- 
ble of  it,  for  there  was  rivalry  as  to  which  of 
them  should  light  the  most — and  in  a  moment 
a  constellation  of  little  flames  covered  the 
Bethlehem  hill-side  and  brought  into  bright 
prominence  the  Holy  Family  and  its  strange 
attendant  host  of  quite  impossible  people  and 
beasts  and  birds. 

The  laying  of  the  yule  -  log  followed ;  a 
ceremony  so  grave  that  it  has  all  the  dignity 
of,  and  really  is,  a  religious  rite.  The  buzz 
of  talk  died  away  into  silence  as  Elizo's  father, 
the  oldest  man,  took  bv  the  hand  and  led  out 
76 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

into  the  court-yard  where  the  log  was  lying 
his  great-grandson,  the  little  Tounin,  the 
youngest  child:  it  being  the  rule  that  the 
nominal  bearers  of  the  cacho-fid  to  the  hearth 
shall  be  the  oldest  and  the  youngest  of  the 
family — the  one  personifying  the  year  that 
is  dying,  the  other  the  year  new-born.  Some- 
times, and  this  is  the  prettiest  rendering  of 
the  custom,  the  two  are  an  old,  old  man  and 
a  baby  carried  in  its  mother's  arms — while 
between  them  the  real  bearers  of  the  burden 
walk. 

In  our  case  the  log  actually  was  carried  by 
Marius  and  Esperit;  but  the  tottering  old 
man  clasped  its  forward  end  with  his  thin 
feeble  hands,  and  its  hinder  end  was  clasped 
by  the  plump  feeble  hands  of  the  tottering 
child.  Thus,  the  four  together,  they  brought 
it  in  through  the  doorway  and  carried  it  thrice 
around  the  room,  circling  the  supper-table  and 
the  lighted  candles;  and  then,  reverently,  it 
was  laid  before  the  fire-place — that  still  some- 
times is  called  in  Provencal  the  lar. 

There  was  a  pause,  while  the  old  man  filled 
out  a  cup  of  vin  cue  ;  and  a  solemn  hush  fell 
upon  the  company,  and  all  heads  were  bowed, 
77 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


as  he  poured  three  libations  upon  the  log, 
saying  with  the  last:  "In  the  name  of  the 
Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy 
Ghost!" — and  then  cried  with  all  the  vigor 
that  he  could  infuse  into  his  thin  and  quaver- 
ing old  voice: 

Cacho-fi6, 
Bouto-fid! 
Alegre !     Alegre ! 
Dieu  nous  alegre! 
Calendo  ven!     Tout  bin  ven! 
Dieu  nous  fague  la  graci  de  veire  l'an  que  ven, 
E  se  noun  sian  pas  mai,  que  noun  fuguen  pas  mens! 

Yule-log, 
Catch  fire! 
Joy!     Joy! 
God  gives  us  joy! 
Christmas  comes !     All  good  comes ! 
May  God  give  us  grace  to  see  the  coming  year, 
And  if  we  are  not  more,  may  we  not  be  less! 

As  he  ended  his  invocation  he  crossed  him- 
self, as  did  all  the  rest ;  and  a  great  glad  shout 
was  raised  of  "Alegre!  Alegre!"  as  Marius 
and  Esperit  —  first  casting  some  fagots  of 
vine-branches  on  the  bed  of  glowing  coals — 
placed  the  yule-log  upon  the  fire.  Instantly 
78 


the  Christmas  Kaunas  of  Provence 

the  vines  blazed  up,  flooding  the  room  with 
brightness;  and  as  the  yule-log  glowed  and 
reddened  everybody  cried 

Cacho-fi6, 
Bouto-fid! 
Al6gre!     Al6gre! 

again  and  again — as  though  the  whole  of 
them  together  of  a  sudden  had  gone  merry- 
mad! 

In  the  midst  of  this  triumphant  rejoicing 
the  bowl  from  which  the  libation  had  been 
poured  was  filled  afresh  with  vin  cue  and  was 
passed  from  hand  to  hand  and  lip  to  lip — 
beginning  with  the  little  Tounin,  and  so  up- 
ward in  order  of  seniority  until  it  came  last  of 
all  to  the  old  man — and  from  it  each  drank  to 
the  new  fire  of  the  new  year. 

Anciently,  this  ceremony  of  the  yule-log 
lighting  was  universal  in  Provence,  and  it  is 
almost  universal  still;  sometimes  with  a  less 
elaborate  ritual  than  I  have  described,  but 
yet  substantially  the  same:  always  with  the 
libation,  always  with  an  invocation,  always 
with  the  rejoicing  toast  to  the  new  fire.  But 
79 


Che  Christmas   Kalends   of   Provence 


in  modern  times — within  the  last  century  or 
so — another  custom  in  part  has  supplanted 
it  in  Marseille  and  Aix  and  in  some  few  other 
towns.  This  is  the  lighting  of  candles  at 
midnight  in  front  of  the  creche;  a  ceremony, 
it  will  be  observed,  in  which  new  fire  still 
bears  the  most  important  part. 

One  of  my  Aix  friends,  the  poet  Joachim 
Gasquet,  has  described  to  me  the  Christmas 
Eve  customs  which  were  observed  in  his  own 
home:  the  Gasquet  baker}^  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Cepede,  that  has  been  handed  down  from 
father  to  son  through  so  many  hundreds  of 
years  that  even  its  owners  cannot  tell  cer- 
tainly whether  it  was  in  the  fourteenth  or 
the  fifteenth  century  that  their  family  legend 
of  good  baking  had  its  rise.  As  Monsieur 
Auguste,  the  contre-maitre  of  the  bakery, 
opened  the  great  stone  door  of  the  oven  that 
I  might  peer  into  its  hot  depths,  an  historical 
cross-reference  came  into  my  mind  that  made 
me  realize  its  high  antiquity.  Allowing  for 
difference  of  longitude,  the  contre-maitre  who 
was  Monsieur  Auguste's  remote  predecessor 
was  lifting  the  morning's  baking  out  of  that 
oven  at  the  very  moment  when  Columbus 
80 


the  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

saw    through    the    darkness    westward    the 
lights  of  a  new  world! 

In  the  Gasquet  family  it  was  the  custom  to 
eat  the  Great  Supper  in  the  oven  room:  be- 
cause that  was  the  heart,  the  sanctuary,  of 
the  house;  the  place  consecrated  by  the  toil 
which  gave  the  family  its  livelihood.  On 
the  supper-table  there  was  always  a  wax 
figure  of  the  Infant  Christ,  and  this  was  car- 
ried just  before  midnight  to  the  living-room, 
off  from  the  shop,  in  one  corner  of  which  the 
creche  was  set  up.  It  was  the  little  Joachim 
whose  right  it  was,  because  he  was  the  young- 
est, the  purest,  to  carry  the  figure.  A  for- 
mal procession  was  made.  He  walked  at  its 
head,  a  little  chap  with  long  curling  golden 
hair,  between  his  two  grandfathers;  the  rest 
followed  in  the  order  of  their  age  and  rank: 
his  two  grandmothers,  his  father  and  mother, 
Monsieur  Auguste  (a  dashing  blade  of  a 
young  baker  then)  with  the  maid-servant, 
and  the  apprentices  last  of  all.  A  single 
candle  was  carried  by  one  of  his  grandfathers 
into  the  dark  room — the  illumination  of  which, 
that  night,  could  come  only  from  the  new 
fire  kindled  before  the  creche.  Precisely  at 
6  81 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


midnight — at  the  moment  when  all  the  elocks 
of  Aix  striking  together  let  loose  the  Christ- 
mas chimes — the  child  laid  the  holy  figure  in 
the  manger,  and  then  the  candles  instantly 
were  set  ablaze. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  a  thrilling  pause 
of  half  a  minute  or  more  while  they  waited  for 
the  bells:  the  child,  with  the  image  in  his 
hands,  standing  before  the  creche  in  the  little 
circle  of  light;  the  others  grouped  behind 
him,  and  for  the  most  part  lost  in  dark  shadow 
cast  by  the  single  candle  held  low  down; 
those  nearest  to  the  creche  holding  matches 
ready  to  strike  so  that  all  the  candles  might 
be  lighted  at  once  when  the  moment  came. 
And  then  all  the  bells  together  would  send 
their  voices  out  over  the  city  heavenward; 
and  his  mother  would  say  softly,  "Now,  my 
little  son!";  and  the  room  would  flash  into 
brightness  suddenly  —  as  though  a  glory 
radiated  from  the  Christ-Child  lying  there  in 
the  manger  between  the  ox  and  the  ass. 

Every  evening  throughout  the  Christmas 

season  the  candles  were  relighted  before  this 

Christmas  shrine,  and  there  the  members  of 

the   family   said   in   common   their   evening 

82 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

prayer;  and  when  the  time  came  for  taking 
down  the  creche  those  parts  of  it  which  were 
not  preserved  for  the  ensuing  }Tear — the  ref- 
use scraps  of  wood  and  pasteboard  and 
moss  and  laurel — were  burned  (this  is  the 
orthodox  general  custom)  with  something  of 
the  flavour  of  a  rite ;  not  cast  into  the  house- 
hold fire  nor  the  bakery  oven,  but  saved  from 
falling  into  base  places  by  being  consumed 
in  a  pure  fire  of  its  own. 


XII 


While  our  own  more  orthodox  yule-log 
ceremonial  was  in  progress,  the  good  Elizo 
and  Janetoun  —  upon  whom  the  responsi- 
bility of  the  supper  rested — evidently  were  a 
prey  to  anxious  thoughts.  They  whispered 
together  and  cast  uneasy  glances  toward  the 
chimney,  into  the  broad  corners  of  which 
the  various  cooking  vessels  had  been  moved 
to  make  way  for  the  cacho  -  fid ;  and  the 
moment  that  the  cup  of  benediction  had 
passed  their  lips  they  precipitated  them- 
selves upon  the  fire-place  and  replaced  the 
83 


CDc  €nri$tma$  Kalends  or  Provence 

pots  and  pans  for  a  final  heating  upon  the 
coals. 

The  long  table  had  been  set  before  our  ar- 
rival and  was  in  perfect  readiness — covered 
with  a  fine  white  linen  cloth,  sacredly  reserved 
for  use  at  high  festivals,  that  fairly  sparkled 
in  the  blaze  of  light  cast  by  the  overhanging 
petroleum  lamp.  Yet  the  two  ceremonial 
candles,  one  at  each  end  of  the  table,  also 
were  lighted;  and  were  watched  anxiously 
as  the  supper  went  on :  for  should  the  wick  of 
one  of  the  Christmas  candles  fall  before  the 
supper  is  ended,  the  person  toward  whom  it 
points  in  falling  will  pass  from  earth  before 
the  Christmas  feast  is  set  again.  But  Mise 
Fougueiroun,  to  guard  against  this  ominous 
catastrophe,  had  played  a  trick  on  Fate  by 
providing  wax  candles  with  wicks  so  fine 
that  they  wasted  away  imperceptibly  in  their 
own  flame. 

Beside  those  fateless  candles  were  the  har- 
vest harbingers,  the  plates  on  which  was 
growing  Saint  Barbara's  grain — so  vigorous 
and  so  freshly  green  that  old  Jan  rubbed  his 
hands  together  comfortably  as  he  said  to  the 
Vidame :  "  Ah,  we  need  have  no  fears  for  the 
84 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

harvest  that  is  coming  in  this  blessed  year!" 
In  the  centre  of  the  table,  its  browned  crust 
slashed  with  a  cross,  was  the  great  loaf  of 
Christmas  bread,  pan  Calendau  ;  on  which 
was  a  bunch  of  holly  tied  with  the  white  pith 
of  rushes — the  "marrow"  of  the  rush,  that  is 
held  to  be  an  emblem  of  strength.  Old  Jan, 
the  master  of  the  house,  cut  the  loaf  into  as 
many  portions  as  there  were  persons  present; 
with  one  double-portion  over  to  be  given  to 
some  poor  one  in  charity — "the  portion  of  the 
good  God."  It  is  of  a  miraculous  nature, 
this  blessed  bread:  the  sailors  of  Provence 
carry  morsels  of  it  with  them  on  their  voy- 
ages, and  by  strewing  its  crumbs  upon  the 
troubled  waters  stay  the  tempests  of  the  sea. 

For  the  rest,  the  table  had  down  its  middle 
a  line  of  dishes — many  of  them  old  faience  of 
Moustiers,  the  mere  sight  of  which  would 
have  thrilled  a  collector's  heart — heaped  with 
the  nougat  and  the  other  sweets  over  the 
making  of  which  our  housekeeper  and  her 
lieutenants  so  soulfully  had  toiled.  And  on 
the  table  in  the  corner  were  fruits  and  nuts 
and  wines. 

Grace  always  is  said  before  the  Great  Sup- 
85 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

per — a  simple  formula  ending  with  the  prayer 
of  the  yule-log  that  if  another  year  there  are 
no  more,  there  may  be  no  less.  It  is  the  cus- 
tom that  this  blessing  shall  be  asked  by  the 
youngest  child  of  the  family  who  can  speak 
the  words :  a  pretty  usage  which  sometimes 
makes  the  blessing  go  very  queerly  indeed. 
Our  little  Tounin  came  to  the  front  again 
in  this  matter,  exhibiting  an  air  of  grave  re- 
sponsibility which  showed  that  he  had  been 
well  drilled;  and  it  was  with  quite  a  saintly 
look  on  his  little  face  that  he  folded  his  hands 
together  and  said  very  earnestly:  "God  bless 
all  that  we  are  going  to  eat,  and  if  we  are 
no  less  next  year  may  we  be  no  more!" 
At  which  everybody  looked  at  Janetoun  and 
laughed. 

In  our  seating  a  due  order  of  precedence 
was  observed.  Old  Jan,  the  head  of  the 
family,  presided,  with  the  Vidame  and  my- 
self on  his  right  and  with  Elizo's  father  and 
mother  on  his  left;  and  thence  the  company 
went  downward  by  age  and  station  to  the  foot 
of  the  table,  where  were  grouped  the  servants 
from  the  Chateau  and  the  workmen  on  the 
farm.  But  no  other  distinction  was  made. 
86 


tbe  CDrisJmas  Helenas  of  Provence 

All  were  served  alike  and  all  drank  together 
as  equals  when  the  toasts  were  called.  The 
servers  were  Elizo  and  Janetoun,  with  Na- 
noun  and  Magali  for  assistants;  and  those 
four,  although  they  took  their  places  at  the 
table  when  each  course  had  been  brought  on, 
had  rather  a  Passover  time  of  it :  for  the}-  ate 
as  it  were  with  their  loins  girded  and  with  full 
or  empty  dishes  imminent  to  their  hands. 

The  stout  Nanoun  —  whose  robust  body 
thrills  easily  to  superstitious  fears — was  still 
farther  handicapped  in  her  own  eating  by 
her  zealous  effort  so  to  stuff  the  family  cat 
as  to  give  that  animal  no  excuse  for  uttering 
evil-portending  miaus.  For  it  is  well  known 
that  should  the  family  cat  fall  to  miauing  on 
Christmas  Eve,  and  especially  while  the  sup- 
per is  in  progress,  very  dreadful  things  sure- 
ly will  happen  to  the  family  during  the  ensu- 
ing year.  Fortunately  Nanoun 's  preventive 
measures  averted  this  calamity;  yet  were 
they  like  to  have  overshot  their  mark.  Only 
the  cat's  natural  abstemiousness  saved  her 
that  night  from  dying  of  a  surfeit — and  in 
agony  surely  provocative  of  the  very  cries 
which  Nanoun  sought  to  restrain! 
87 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

As  I  have  said,  the  Great  Supper  must 
be  "lean,"  and  is  restricted  to  certain 
dishes  which  in  no  wise  can  be  changed; 
but  a  rich  leanness  is  possible  in  a  coun- 
try where  olive-oil  takes  the  place  of  ani- 
mal fat  in  cooking,  and  where  the  accu- 
mulated skill  of  ages  presides  over  the  kitchen 
fire.  The  principal  dish  is  the  ra'ito  —  a  ra- 
gout made  of  delicately  fried  fish  served  in  a 
sauce  flavoured  with  wine  and  capers — where- 
of the  tradition  goes  back  a  round  twenty-five 
hundred  years :  to  the  time  when  the  Phokaean 
housewives  brought  with  them  to  Massalia 
(the  Marseille  of  to-day)  the  happy  mystery 
of  its  making  from  their  Grecian  homes. 
But  this  excellent  dish  was  not  lost  to  Greece 
because  it  was  gained  to  Gaul :  bearing  the 
same  name  and  made  in  the  same  fashion  it 
is  eaten  by  the  Greeks  of  the  present  day. 
It  usually  is  made  of  dried  codfish  in  Pro- 
vence, where  the  cod  is  held  in  high  esteem; 
but  is  most  delicately  toothsome  when  made 
of  eels. 

The  second  course  of  the  Great  Supper  also 
is  fish,  which  may  be  of  any  sort  and  served 
in  any  way — in  our  case  it  was  a  perch-like 
88 


tin  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

variety  of  dainty  pan  -  fish,  fresh  from  the 
Rhone.  A  third  course  of  fish  sometimes  is 
served,  but  the  third  course  usually  is  snails 
cooked  in  a  rich  brown  sauce  strongly  flavour- 
ed with  garlic.  The  Provencal  snails,  which 
feed  in  a  gourmet  fashion  upon  vine-leaves, 
are  peculiarly  delicious  —  and  there  was  a 
murmur  of  delight  from  our  company  as  the 
four  women  brought  to  the  table  four  big 
dishes  full  of  them;  and  for  a  while  there  was 
only  the  sound  of  eager  munching,  mixed 
with  the  clatter  on  china  of  the  empty  shells. 
To  extract  them,  we  had  the  strong  thorns, 
three  or  four  inches  long,  of  the  wild  acacia; 
and  on  these  the  little  brown  morsels  were 
carried  to  the  avid  mouths  and  eaten  with  a 
bit  of  bread  sopped  in  the  sauce — and  then  the 
shell  was  subjected  to  a  vigorous  sucking, 
that  not  a  drop  of  the  sauce  lingering  within 
it  should  be  lost. 

To  the  snails  succeeded  another  dish  es- 
sentially Provencal,  carde.  The  carde  is  a 
giant  thistle  that  grows  to  a  height  of  five 
or  six  feet,  and  is  so  luxuriantly  magnificent 
both  in  leaf  and  in  flower  that  it  deserves  a 
place  among  ornamental  plants.  The  edible 
89 


Che   Christmas  Kalends  of  Presence 

portion  is  the  stem  —  blanched  like  celery, 
which  it  much  resembles,  bj^  being  earthed- 
up — cooked  with  a  white  sauce  flavoured  with 
garlic.  The  garlic,  however,  is  a  mistake, 
since  it  overpowers  the  delicate  taste  of  the 
carde — but  garlic  is  the  overlord  of  all  things 
eatable  in  Provence.  I  was  glad  when  we 
passed  on  to  the  celery,  with  which  the  first 
section  of  the  supper  came  to  an  end. 

The  second  section  was  such  an  explosion 
of  sweets  as  might  fly  into  space  should  a 
comet  collide  with  a  confectioner's  shop — 
nougat,  jougasso,  a  great  poumpo,  compotes, 
candied-fruits,  and  a  whole  nightmare  herd  of 
rich  cakes  on  which  persons  not  blessed  with 
the  most  powerful  organs  of  digestion  surely 
would  go  galloping  to  the  country  of  dreadful 
dreams.  This  was  prodigality;  but  even  the 
bare  requirements  of  the  case  were  lavish, 
the  traditional  law  of  the  Great  Supper  or- 
daining that  not  fewer  than  seven  different 
sweets  shall  be  served.  Mise  Fougueiroun, 
however,  was  not  the  person  to  stand  upon  the 
parsimonious  letter  of  any  eating  law.  Here 
had  been  her  opportunity,  and  she  had  run 
amuck  through  all  the  range  of  sugary  things ! 
90 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

Of  the  dessert  of  nuts  and  fruit  the  notable 
features  were  grapes  and  winter-melons.  Pos- 
sibly because  they  are  an  obscure  survival 
of  some  Bacchic  custom  connected  with  the 
celebration  of  the  winter  solstice,  the  grapes 
are  considered  a  very  necessary  part  of  the 
Great  Supper;  but  as  Provencal  grapes  are 
of  a  soft  substance  and  soon  wither,  though 
a  world  of  care  is  taken  to  preserve  a  few 
bunches  until  Christmas,  this  part  of  the  feast 
usualty  is  a  ceremony  rather  than  a  satis- 
faction. 

But  our  melons  were  a  pure  vegetable  de- 
light. These  winter-melons  are  a  species  of 
cantaloupe,  but  of  a  firmer  texture  than  the 
summer  fruit,  sowed  late  in  the  season  and 
laid  away  a  little  green  on  beds  of  straw  in 
cool  and  dark  and  well-aired  rooms.  Thus 
cared  for,  they  will  keep  until  the  end  of  Jan- 
uary; but  they  are  preserved  especially  for 
Christmas,  and  few  survive  beyond  that  day. 
They  are  of  American  origin :  as  I  discovered 
quite  by  chance  while  reading  a  collection  of 
delightful  letters,  but  lately  published,  writ- 
ten near  three  hundred  years  ago  by  Dr. 
Antoine  Novel;  that  Provencal  naturalist, 
9i 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

whom  Buff  on  quotes  under  the  wrongly  Latin- 
ized name  of  Natalis,  sometime  physician  to 
the  Duke  of  Medina-Sidonia  in  Spain.  He 
was  a  rolling  stone  of  a  naturalist,  the  excel- 
lent Novel;  but  his  gatherings  were  many, 
and  most  of  them  were  for  the  benefit  of 
his  beloved  Provence.  It  was  from  "Sainct 
Luquar,"  under  date  of  March  24,  1625,  that 
he  wrote  to  his  friend  Peiresc  in  Aix:  "I  send 
vou  by  the  Patron  Armand  a  little  box  in 
which  are  two  specimens  of  ore  .  .  .  and  ten 
sorts  of  seeds  of  the  most  exquisite  fruits  and 
flowers  of  the  Indies;  and  to  fill  the  chinks  I 
have  put  in  the  seeds  of  winter-melons." 
And  in  a  letter  of  June  12th,  following,  he 
wrote :  "  I  hope  that  you  have  received  my 
letter  sent  by  the  Patron  Armand  of  Mar- 
tigues,  who  sailed  in  Holy  Week  for  that  town, 
by  whom  I  sent  you  some  seeds  of  exquisite 
fruits  and  flowers  of  the  Indies,  together  with 
two  specimens  of  ore,  the  one  from  Potosi 
and  the  other  from  Terra-Firma,  and  also  a 
box  of  seven  winter-melons  of  that  country." 
And  so  the  winter  -  melons  came  into  Pro- 
vence from  somewhere  on  the  Spanish  Main. 
I  could  wish  that  my  gentleman  had  been  a 
92 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

bit  more  definite  in  his  geography.  As  he 
leaves  the  matter,  his  melons  may  have  come 
from  anywhere  between  the  Orinoco  and 
Florida;  and  down  in  that  region  somewhere, 
no  doubt,  they  still  are  to  be  found. 

With  the  serious  part  of  the  supper  we 
drank  the  ordinary  small  wine  diluted  with 
water;  but  with  the  dessert  was  paraded  a 
gallant  company  of  dusty  bottles  containing 
ancient  vintages  which  through  many  ripen- 
ing years  had  been  growing  richer  by  feeding 
upon  their  own  excellence  in  the  wine-room 
of  the  Mazet  or  the  cellar  of  the  Chateau.  All 
were  wines  of  the  country,  it  being  a  point  of 
honour  in  Provencal  households  of  all  degrees 
that  only  from  Provencal  vineyards — or  from 
the  near-by  vineyards  of  Languedoc  —  shall 
come  the  Christmas  wines.  Therefore  we 
drank  rich  and  strong  Tavel,  and  delicate 
Ledenon,  and  heavy  Frontignan  —  the  cloy- 
ingly-sweet  Mouscat  de  Maroussa — and  home- 
made champagne  (the  clairette,  with  a  super- 
abundance of  pop  and  fizz  but  undeniably 
cider -like),  and  at  last,  for  a  climax,  old 
Chateauneuf-du-Pape :  the  dean  of  the  Pro- 
vencal vinous  faculty,  rich,  smooth,  delicate, 
93 


Cbc  gnrlstmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

with  a  slightly  aromatic  after-taste  that  the 
dallying  bees  bring  to  the  vine-blossoms  from 
the  blossoms  of  the  wild-thyme.  Anciently  it 
filled  the  cups  over  which  chirped  the  spright- 
ly Popes  of  Avignon ;  and  in  later  times,  only 
forty  years  back,  it  was  the  drink  of  the 
young  Felibrien  poets — Mistral,  Roumanille, 
Aubanel,  Mathieu  and  the  rest — while  they 
tuned  and  set  a-going  their  lyres.  But  it  is 
passing  into  a  tradition  now.  The  old  vines, 
the  primitive  stock,  were  slain  bjT  the  phyl- 
loxera, and  the  new  vines  planted  to  replace 
them  do  not  produce  a  wine  like  that  over 
which  Popes  and  poets  once  were  gay.  Only 
in  rich  old  cellars,  such  as  that  of  Vielmur, 
may  still  be  found  a  bin  or  two  of  dust-grey 
Papal  veterans :  survivors  of  the  brave  army 
that  has  gurgled  its  life  out  in  a  happy  past! 


XIII 

But    the    material    element    of   the  Great 

Supper   is   its   least  part.     What  entitles    it 

to  the  augmenting  adjective  is  its  soul:  that 

subtle  essence  of  peace  and  amity  for  which 

94 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

the  word  Christmas  is  a  synonym  in  all  Chris- 
tian lands.  It  is  the  rule  of  these  family 
gatherings  at  Christmas  time  in  Provence 
that  all  heartburnings  and  rancours,  which 
may  have  sprung  up  during  the  year,  then 
shall  be  cut  down;  and  even  if  sometimes 
they  quickty  grow  again,  as  no  doubt  they 
do  now  and  then,  it  makes  for  happiness 
that  they  shall  be  thus  banished  from  the 
peace-feast  of  the  year. 

Janetoun  and  one  of  her  sisters-in-law 
were  the  only  members  of  our  party  who  had 
a  hatchet  to  bury ;  and  the  burial  was  over  so 
quickly — being  but  an  extra  hug  and  an  ex- 
plosion of  kisses — that  I  should  have  known 
nothing  about  it  but  for  the  over-long  tongue 
of  Mise  Fougueiroun :  who,  in  a  kindly  way, 
is  as  thorough-going  a  gossip  as  ever  lived. 
Of  all  things  in  the  world  to  quarrel  about, 
this  quarrel  had  grown  out  of  a  spirited  dif- 
ference of  opinion  as  to  how  the  heel  of  a 
knitted  stocking  should  be  turned!  But 
the  matter  had  come  to  be  quite  of  a  serious- 
ness, and  all  the  family  breathed  freer  when 
those  resounding  peace-kisses  were  given  and 
received.  Actually,  as  I  happened  to  learn 
95 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 


later,  the  reconciliation  was  pushed  to  such 
an  extreme  that  each  of  them  incontinently 
adopted  the  other's  knitting  creed — with  the 
curious  result  that  they  now  are  in  a  fair 
way  to  have  a  fresh  quarrel  for  next  Christ- 
mas out  of  the  same  matter  on  inverted  lines ! 
It  was  before  the  lighting  of  the  yule-log 
that  the  feud  of  the  stocking  heels  thus  hap- 
pily (even  though  only  temporarily)  was  paci- 
fied, and  the  family  festival  was  cloudless 
from  first  to  last. 

When  the  serious  part  of  the  supper  had 
been  disposed  of  and  the  mere  palate-tickling 
period  of  the  dessert  had  come,  I  was  much 
interested  in  observing  that  the  talk — mainly 
carried  on  by  the  elders — was  turned  with 
an  obviously  deliberate  purpose  upon  family 
history;  and  especially  upon  the  doings  of 
those  who  in  the  past  had  brought  honour 
upon  the  family  name.  And  I  was  still  more 
interested  when,  later,  the  Vidame  informed 
me  that  it  is  the  Provencal  custom  at  the 
Christmas  festival  for  the  old  thus  to  instruct 
the  young  and  so  to  keep  family  tradition  alive. 
No  doubt  there  is  in  this  a  dim  survival  of 
ancestor-worship;  but  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
96 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

so  excellent  a  relic  of  paganism  preserved  in 
the  Christmas  ritual  of  my  own  land. 

The  chief  ancestral  glory  of  the  family  of 
the  Mazet  is  its  close  blood-relationship  with 
the  gallant  Andre  Etienne:  that  drummer  of 
the  Fifty-first  Demi-brigade  of  the  Army  of 
Italy  who  is  commemorated  on  the  frieze  of 
the  Pantheon,  and  who  is  known  and  hon- 
oured as  the  "Tambour  d'Arcole"  all  over 
France.  It  was  delightful  to  listen  to  old 
Jan's  telling  of  the  brave  story :  how  this 
Andre,  their  own  kinsman,  swam  the  stream 
under  the  enemy's  fire  at  Arcolo  with  his 
drum  on  his  back  and  then  drummed  his 
fellow-soldiers  on  to  victory;  how  the  First 
Consul  awarded  him  the  drum-sticks  of  honour, 
and  later — when  the  Legion  of  Honour  was 
founded  —  gave  him  the  cross ;  how  they 
carved  him  in  stone,  drumming  the  charge, 
up  there  on  the  front  of  the  Pantheon  in  Paris 
itself ;  how  Mistral,  the  great  poet  of  Provence, 
had  made  a  poem  about  him  that  had  been 
printed  in  a  book;  and  how,  crowning  glory, 
they  had  set  up  his  marble  statue  in  Cadenet 
— the  little  town,  not  far  from  Avignon,  where 
he  was  born! 

7  97 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  oT  ProiKnce 


Old  Jan  was  not  content  with  merely  telling 
this  story — like  a  true  Provencal  he  acted  it: 
swinging  a  supposititious  drum  upon  his  back, 
jumping  into  an  imaginary  river  and  swim- 
ming it  with  his  head  in  the  air,  swinging  his 
drum  back  into  place  again,  and  then — Z6u  1 
— starting  off  at  the  head  of  the  Fifty-first 
Demi-brigade  with  such  a  rousing  play  of 
drum-sticks  that  I  protest  we  fairly  heard 
the  rattle  of  them,  along  with  the  spatter  of 
Italian  musket  in  the  face  of  which  Andr6 
Etienne  beat  that  {  allant  pas-  ^^charge  ! 

It  set  me  all  a-+1irilling ;  a  .d  still  mor 
it  thrill  those  other  listeners  who  were  of  u* 
Arcolo   h(  r o's  very  blood   and   v  ne.     The> 
clapped  their  hands  i    '  they  shouted      ^hev 
laughed  .with  delight.     And  the  fight    ^m[\Y 
it  of  G<-    1  was    so  stirred  within   th&Su     Q£ 
at  <       >ra — tin     nations  betwe^        witn    an 
Ita  •  ■  ctle  strained  just     •    from  erily 

be"  ^uld  have  been  f or'  marching  in 

a  bod>      ,ross  the  south-eastern  frontier! 

Elizo's   old   father   was   rather   out   of   the 

running  in  this  matter.     It  was  not  by  any 

relative  of  his  that  the  drum-sticks  of  honour 

had  been  won ;  and  his  thoughts,  after  wander- 

98 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  of    Provence 

ing  a  little,  evidently  settled  down  upon  the 
strictly  personal  fact  that  his  thin  old  legs 
were  cold.  Rising  slowly  from  the  table,  he 
carried  his  plate  to  the  fire-place;  and  when 
he  had  arranged  some  live  coals  in  one  of 
the  baskets  of  the  waist-high  andirons  he 
rested  the  plate  above  them  on  the  iron  rim: 
and  so  stood  there,  eating  contentedly,  while 
the  warmth  from  the  glowing  yule-log  en- 
tered gratefully  into  his  lean  old  body  and 
stirred  to  a  brisker  pulsing  the  blood  in  his 
,6Q  meagre  vein"  But  his  interest  in  what  was 
•^y  lg  forward    eyived  agxin — his  legs  being, 

r\iso,  by  that  time  well  warmed — when  his 
own  pra^'  ~    were  sounded  by  '       daughter: 
in         story  of  how  "     stopn*  .  the  runaway 
and  h    >n  the  very  l    ik  of  the  precipice  at 
fou-   &p-  "'•  and  how  his  wif    all  tk    wl  le  sat 
cal  °  him  in  the  c        cool  ar       "lent, 

ana  "'  ,  no  sign  of  f 

When   i^lizo  had   finish       t1  (she 

whispeied  a  word  to  Magali  an  Nanoun 
that  sent  them  laughing  out  of  the  room; 
and  presently  Magali  came  back  again  ar- 
rayed in  the  identical  dress  which  had  been 
worn  by  the  heroine  of  the  adventure — who 
99 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

had  perked  and  plumed  herself  not  a  little 
while  her  daughter  told  about  it — when  the 
runaway  horse  so  nearly  had  galloped  her 
off  the  Baux  rock  into  Eternity.  It  was  the 
Provencal  costume  —  with  full  sleeves  and 
flaring  cap — of  sixty  years  back;  but  a  little 
gayer  than  the  strict  Aries  dress  of  that  period, 
because  her  mother  was  not  of  Aries  but  of 
Beaucaire.  It  was  not  so  graceful,  especially 
in  the  head-dress,  as  the  costume  of  the  pres- 
ent day;  nor  nearly  so  becoming — as  Magali 
showed  by  looking  a  dozen  years  older  after 
putting  it  on.  But  Magali,  even  with  a  dozen 
years  added,  could  not  but  be  charming;  and 
I  think  that  the  little  old  bowed  grandmother 
— who  still  was  a  bit  of  a  coquette  at  eighty — 
would  have  been  better  pleased  had  she  been 
spared  this  encounter  with  what  must  have 
seemed  to  her  very  like  a  meeting  with  her 
own  young  ghost,  raised  suddenly  from  the 
depths  of  the  distant  past. 

By  long  experience,  gained  on  many  such 
occasions,  the  Vidame  knew  that  the  culmi- 
nating point  of  the  supper  would  be  reached 
when  the  family  drummer  swam  the  river 
and  headed  the  French  charge  at  Arcolo. 
ioo 


MAGAL1 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

Therefore  had  he  reserved  until  a  later  period, 
when  the  excitement  incident  to  the  revival 
of  that  honourable  bit  of  family  history  should 
have  subsided,  a  joy-giving  bomb-shell  of  his 
own  that  he  had  all  ready  to  explode.  An 
American  or  an  Englishman  never  could 
have  fired  it  without  something  in  the  way  of 
speech-making ;  but  the  Vidame  was  of  a  shy 
temper,  and  speech-making  was  not  in  his 
line.  When  the  chatter  caused  by  Magali's 
costuming  had  lulled  a  little,  and  there  came 
a  momentary  pause  in  the  talk,  he  merely 
reached  diagonally  across  the  table  and 
touched  glasses  with  Esperit  and  said  simply : 
"To  your  good  health,  Monsieur  the  Super- 
intendent of  the  Lower  Farm!" 

It  was  done  so  quietly  that  for  some  sec- 
onds no  one  realized  that  the  Vidame's  toast 
brought  happiness  to  all  the  household,  and 
to  two  of  its  members  a  life-long  joy.  Es- 
perit, even,  had  his  glass  almost  to  his  lips 
before  he  understood  to  what  he  was  drink- 
ing ;  and  then  his  understanding  came  through 
the  finer  nature  of  Magali — who  gave  a  quick 
deep  sob  as  she  buried  her  face  in  the  buxom 
Nanoun's  bosom  and  encircled  that  aston- 

IOI 


Che  Christinas    Kalends  of  Provence 

ished  young  person's  neck  with  her  arms. 
Esperit  went  pale  at  that;  but  the  hand  did 
not  tremble  in  which  he  held  his  still-raised 
glass,  nor  did  his  voice  quaver  as  he  said 
with  a  deep  earnestness :  "  To  the  good  health 
of  Monsieur  le  Vidame,  with  the  thanks  of  two 
very  happy  hearts  !" — and  so  drained  his  wine. 

A  great  danger  puts  no  more  strain  upon 
the  nerves  of  a  man  of  good  fibre  than  does  a 
great  joy;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  Esperit's 
absolute  steadiness,  under  this  sudden  fire  of 
happiness,  showed  him  to  be  made  of  as  fine 
and  as  manly  stuff  as  went  to  the  making  of 
his  kinsman  who  beat  the  pas-de-charge  up 
the  slope  at  Arcolo  at  the  head  of  the  Fifty- 
first  Demi-brigade. 

But  nothing  less  than  the  turbulence  of  the 
whole  battle  of  Arcolo — not  to  say  of  that 
whole  triumphant  campaign  in  Italy — will 
suffice  for  a  comparison  with  the  tumult 
that  arose  about  our  supper-table  when  the 
meaning  of  the  Vidame's  toast  fairly  was 
grasped  by  the  company  at  large!  I  do  not 
think  that  I  could  express  in  words — nor  by 
any  less  elaborate  method  of  illustration  than 
a  kinetoscope — the  state  of  excitement  into 
102 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

which  a  Provencal  will  fly  over  a  matter  of 
absolutely  no  importance  at  all;  how  he  will 
burst  forth  into  a  very  whirlwind  of  words 
and  gestures  about  some  trifle  that  an  ordinary 
human  being  would  dispose  of  without  the 
quiver  of  an  eye.  And  as  our  matter  was 
one  so  truly  moving  that  a  very  Dutchman 
through  all  his  phlegm  would  have  been 
stirred  by  it,  such  a  tornado  was  set  a-going 
as  would  have  put  a  mere  hurricane  of  the 
tropics  to  open  shame! 

Naturally,  the  disturbance  was  central 
over  Esperit  and  Magali  and  the  Vidame. 
The  latter  —  his  kind  old  face  shining  like 
the  sun  of  an  Easter  morning  —  gave  back 
with  a  good  will  on  Magali's  cheeks  her  kisses 
of  gratitude;  and  exchanged  embraces  and 
kisses  with  the  elder  women;  and  went 
through  such  an  ordeal  of  violent  hand-shak- 
ing that  I  trembled  for  the  integrity  of  his 
arms.  But  as  for  the  young  people,  whom 
everybody  embraced  over  and  over  again  with 
a  terrible  energy,  that  they  came  through  it 
all  with  whole  ribs  is  as  near  to  being  a 
miracle  as  anything  that  has  happened  in 
modern  times! 

103 


Che  CDri$tma$  Kalends  of   Presence 

Gradually  the  storm  subsided — though  not 
without  some  fierce  after-gusts — and  at  last 
worked  itself  off  harmlessly  in  song  :  as  we  re- 
turned to  the  ritual  of  the  evening  and  took 
to  the  singing  of  noels — the  Christmas  can- 
ticles which  are  sung  between  the  ending  of 
the  Great  Supper  and  the  beginning  of  the 
midnight  mass. 


XIV 

The  Provencal  noels  —  being  some  real, 
or  some  imagined,  incident  of  the  Nativ- 
ity told  in  verse  set  to  a  gay  or  tender  air — 
are  the  creche  translated  into  song.  The 
simplest  of  them  are  direct  renderings  of  the 
Bible  narrative.  Our  own  Christmas  hymn, 
"While  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by 
night,"  is  precisely  of  this  order;  and,  in- 
deed, is  of  the  very  period  wThen  flourished 
the  greatest  of  the  Proven  gal  noel  writers: 
for  the  Poet  Laureate  Nahum  Tate,  whose 
laurel  this  hymn  keeps  green,  was  born  in 
the  year  1652  and  had  begun  his  mildly  poetic 
career  wrhile  Saboly  still  was  alive. 
104 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Propcncc 

But  most  of  the  noels  —  nowtd,  they  are 
called  in  Provencal — are  purely  imaginative: 
quaintly  innocent  stories  created  by  the  poets, 
or  taken  from  those  apocryphal  scriptures 
in  which  the  simple-minded  faithful  of  Pa- 
tristic times  built  up  a  warmly  coloured  le- 
gend of  the  Virgin's  life  and  of  the  birth  and 
childhood  of  her  Son.  Sometimes,  even,  the 
writers  stra3^  away  entirely  from  a  religious 
base  and  produce  mere  roistering  catches  or 
topical  songs.  Such  are  those  Marseille 
noels  which  are  nothing  more  than  Pantag- 
ruelian  lists  of  succulent  dishes  proper  to 
Christmas  time — frankly  ending,  in  one  case, 
with  the  materialistic  query:  "What  do  I 
care  for  the  future,  now  that  my  belly  is  well 
lined?"  It  was  against  such  "bacchanals  of 
noel"  that  the  worthy  Father  Cotton  preached 
in  Marseille  in  the  year  1602:  but  the  flesh 
and  the  devil  alwaj^s  have  had  things  pretty 
much  their  own  way  in  that  gay  city,  and  he 
preached  in  vain.  And  at  Aix-en-Provence 
the  most  popular  noel  of  all  that  were  sung 
in  the  cathedral  was  a  satirical  review  of  the 
events  of  the  year :  that  as  time  went  on  grew 
to  be  more  and  more  of  a  scandal,  until  at 
105 


Cne  enrlstmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

last  the  Bishop  had  to  put  a  stop  to  it  in  the 
year  1653. 

The  Provencaux  have  been  writing  noels 
for  more  than  four  hundred  years.  One  of 
the  oldest  belongs  to  the  first  half  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  and  is  ascribed  to  Raimond 
F6raud ;  the  latest  are  of  our  own  day — b}' 
Roumanille,  Crousillat,  Mistral,  Girard,  Gras, 
and  a  score  more.  But  only  a  few  have  been 
written  to  live.  The  memory  of  many  once- 
famous  noel-writers  is  preserved  now  either 
mainly  or  wholly  b\T  a  single  song.  Thus 
the  Chanoine  Puech,  who  died  at  Aix  almost 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  lives  in  the 
noel  of  the  Christ-Child  and  the  three  g3rpsy 
fortune-tellers — which  he  stole,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  from  Lope  de  Vega.  The  Abbe  Dou- 
mergue,  of  Aramon,  who  flourished  at  about 
the  same  period,  is  alive  because  of  his  "  March 
of  the  Kings":  that  has  come  ringing  down 
through  the  ages  set  to  Lulli's  magnificent 
"March  of  Turenne";  and  it  is  interesting  to 
note  that  Lulli  is  said  to  have  found  his  noble 
motive  in  a  Provencal  air.  Antoine  Peyrol, 
who  lived  only  a  little  more  than  a  century 
ago,  and  who  "in  our  good  city  of  Avignon 
106 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

was  a  carpenter  and  wood-seller  and  a  simple- 
hearted  singer  of  Bethlehem"  (as  Roumanille 
puts  it)  has  fared  better,  more  than  a  dozen 
of  his  noels  surviving  to  be  sung  each  year 
when  "the  nougat  bells"  (as  they  call  the 
Christmas  chimes  in  Avignon)  are  ringing 
in  his  native  town.  And,  on  the  other  hand, 
as  though  to  strike  a  balance  between  fame 
and  forgottenness,  there  are  some  widely 
popular  noels — as  "C'est  le  bon  lever" — of 
which  the  authorship  absolutely  is  unknown ; 
while  there  are  still  others — as  the  charming 
"Wild  Nightingale"  —  which  belong  to  no 
one  author,  but  have  been  built  up  by  un- 
known farm  -  house  poets  who  have  added 
fresh  verses  and  so  have  passed  on  the  amend- 
ed song. 

The  one  assured  immortal  among  these 
musical  mortalities  is  Nicolas  Saboly:  who 
was  born  in  Monteux,  close  by  Avignon,  in 
the  year  1614;  who  for  the  greater  part  of 
his  life  was  chapel-master  and  organist  of 
the  Avignon  church  of  St.  Pierre;  who  died 
in  the  year  1675;  and  who  lies  buried  in  the 
choir  of  the  church  which  for  so  long  he 
filled  with  his  own  heaven-sweet  harmonies. 
107 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

Of  his  beautiful  life-work,  Roumanille  has 
written:  "As  organist  of  the  church  of  St. 
Pierre,  Saboly  soon  won  a  great  and  beauti- 
ful renown  as  a  musician ;  but  his  fame  and 
his  glory  have  come  to  him  because  of  the 
blessed  thought  that  he  had  of  composing 
his  marvellous  noels.  Yet  it  was  not  until 
the  year  1658,  when  he  himself  was  fifty- 
four  years  old,  that  he  decided  to  tie  together 
and  to  publish  his  first  sheaf  of  them.  From 
that  time  onward,  every  year  until  his  end,  a 
fresh  sheaf  of  from  six  to  a  dozen  appeared; 
and,  although  no  name  went  with  them,  all 
of  his  townsfolk  knew  that  it  was  their  own 
Troubadour  of  the  Nativity  who  made  them 
so  excellent  a  gift  just  as  the  nougat  bells 
began  to  ring.  The  organ  of  St.  Pierre, 
touched  by  his  master  hand,  taught  the  gay 
airs  to  which  the  new  noels  were  cast. 
And  all  Avignon  presently  would  be  sing- 
ing them,  and  soon  the  chorus  would  swell 
throughout  the  Comtat  and  Provence.  The 
inimitable  Troubadour  of  Bethlehem  died 
just  as  he  had  tied  together  the  eighth  of 
his  little  sheaves.  .  .  .  His  noels  have  been 
reprinted  many  times;  and,  thanks  be  to 
108 


Che  CDristmas  Helenas  of  Prooence 

God,  they  will  be  printed  again  and  again 
forever!"* 

In  addition  to  being  a  genius,  Saboly  had 
the  good  fortune  to  live  in  one  of  the  periods 
of  fusing  and  recasting  which  give  to  genius 
its  opportunity.  He  was  born  at  the  very 
time  when  Claude  Monteverde  was  taking 
those  audacious  liberties  with  harmony  which 
cleared  the  way  for  the  transition  from  the 
old  tonality  to  the  new;  and  he  died  before 
the  great  modern  masters  had  set  up  those 
standards  which  composers  of  our  time  must 
either  accept  or  defy.  He  certainly  was  in- 
fluenced by  the  then  new  Italian  school; 
indeed,  from  the  fourteenth  century,  when 
music  began  to  be  cultivated  in  Avignon,  the 
relations  between  that  city  and  Italy  were  so 
close  that  the  first  echoes  of  Italian  musical 
innovators  naturally  would  be  heard  there. 
Everywhere  his  work  shows,  as  theirs  does; 
a  searching  for  new  methods  in  the  domain 

*  The  admirable  edition  of  Saboly 's  noels,  text  and 
music,  published  at  Avignon  in  the  year  1856  by  Fran- 
cois Seguin  has  been  reissued  by  the  same  publisher 
in  definitive  form.  It  can  be  obtained  through  the  Li- 
brarie  Roumanille,  Avignon. 
109 


CDe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

of  modulation,  and  a  defiance  of  the  laws  of 
transformation  reverenced  by  the  formal  com- 
posers of  his  time.  Yet  he  did  his  searching 
always  on  his  own  lines  and  in  his  own  way. 
Nor  was  his  original  genius  lessened  by 
his  willingness  at  times  to  lay  hands  on  the  de- 
sirable property  of  other  people — since  his  un- 
lawful acquisitions  received  always  a  subtle 
touch  which  really  made  them  his  own.  He 
knew  well  how  to  take  the  popular  airs  of 
the  moment — the  gavotte  or  minuet  or  vaude- 
ville which  every  one  was  singing :  the  good 
old  airs,  as  we  call  them  now,  which  then 
were  the  newest  of  the  new — and  how  to  in- 
fuse into  them  his  own  personality  and  so  to 
fit  them  like  a  glove  to  his  own  noels.  Thus, 
his  Twelfth  noel  is  set  to  an  air  composed  by 
Lulli  for  the  drinking  song,  "Qu'ils  sont 
doux,  bouteille  jolie,"  in  Moliere's  "M£decin 
malgre  lui";  and  those  who  are  familiar 
with  the  music  of  his  time  will  be  both  scan- 
dalized and  set  a-laughing  by  finding  the 
uses  to  which  he  has  put  airs  which  began 
life  in  far  from  seemly  company.  But  his 
forays  were  made  from  choice,  not  from  ne- 
cessity, and  the  best  of  his  noels  are  his  own. 
no 


Cfte  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

Saboly's  muruc  has  a  "go"  and  a  melodic 
quality  suggestive  of  the  work  of  Sir  Arthur 
Sullivan;  but  it  has  a  more  tender,  a  fresher, 
a  purer  note,  even  more  sparkle,  than  ever 
Sullivan  has  achieved.  In  his  gay  airs  the 
attack  is  instant,  brilliant,  overpowering  — 
like  a  glad  outburst  of  sweet  bells,  like  the 
joyous  laughter  of  a  child — and  everything 
goes  with  a  dash  and  a  swing.  But  while  he 
thus  loved  to  harmonize  a  laugh,  he  also 
could  strike  a  note  of  infinite  tenderness.  In 
his  pathetic  noels  he  drops  into  thrillingly 
plaintive  minors  which  fairly  drag  one's 
heart  out — echoes  or  survivals,  possibly  (for 
this  poignant  melody  is  not  uncommon  in  old 
Proven  gal  music),  of  the  passionately  longing 
love-songs  with  which  Saracen  knights  once 
went  a-serenading  beneath  castle  windows 
here  in  Provence. 

Nor  is  his  verse,  of  its  curious  kind,  less 
excellent  than  his  music.  By  turns,  as  the 
humour  takes  him,  his  noels  are  sermons,  or 
delicate  religious  fancies,  or  sharp  -  pointed 
satires,  or  whimsical  studies  of  country-side 
life.  One  whole  series  of  seven  is  a  history 
of  the  Nativity  (surely  the  quaintest  and  the 
in 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

gayest  and  the  tenderest  oratorio  that  ever 
was  written!)  in  which,  in  music  and  in  words, 
he  is  at  his  very  best.  Above  all,  his  noels 
are  local.  His  background  always  is  his 
own  country;  his  characters — Micolau  the 
big  shepherd,  gossip  Guihaumeto,  Tdni, 
Christdu,  and  the  rest — always  are  Proven- 
caux :  wearing  Provencaux  pink  -  bordered 
jackets,  and  white  hats  bedizened  with  rib- 
bons, and  marching  to  Bethlehem  to  the 
sound  of  the  galoubet  and  tambourin.  It 
is  from  Avignon,  out  by  the  Porte  Saint 
Lazare,  that  the  start  for  Bethlehem  is  made 
by  his  pilgrim  company;  the  Provengal  music 
plays  to  cheer  them;  they  stamp  their  feet 
and  swing  their  arms  about,  because  the 
mistral  is  blowing  and  they  are  desperately 
cold.  It  is  a  simplicity  half  laughable,  half 
pathetic — such  as  is  found  in  those  Mediaeval 
pictures  which  represent  the  Apostles  or  the 
Holy  Family  in  the  garb  of  the  artist's  own 
time  and  country,  and  above  the  walls  of 
Bethlehem  the  church  spire  of  his  own  town. 
This  naive  local  twist  is  not  peculiar  to 
Saboly.  With  very  few  exceptions  all  Pro- 
vengal noels  are  packed  full  of  the  same  de- 
112 


THE    PASSING   OF   THE    KINGS 


ClK  Cbristmas  Kalends  of  Proocncc 

lightful  anachronisms.  It  is  to  Provencal 
shepherds  that  the  Herald  Angel  appears;  it 
is  Provencaux  who  compose  the  bregado, 
the  pilgrim  company,  that  starts  for  Bethle- 
hem; and  Bethlehem  is  a  village,  always 
within  easy  walking  distance,  here  in  Pro- 
vence. Yet  it  is  not  wholly  simplicity  that 
has  brought  about  this  shifting  of  the  scene 
of  the  Nativity  from  the  hill  country  of  Judaea 
to  the  hill  country  of  Southeastern  France. 
The  life  and  the  look  of  the  two  lands  have 
much  in  common ;  and  most  impressively  will 
their  common  character  be  felt  by  one  who 
walks  here  by  night  beneath  the  stars. 

Here,  as  in  the  Holy  Land,  winding  ways 
pass  out  from  olive-orchards,  and  on  across 
dry  reaches  of  upland  broken  by  outcrop- 
ping rocks  and  scattered  trees  and  bushes 
and  sparsely  thatched  with  short  dry  grass. 
Through  the  silence  will  come  now  and  then 
the  tinkle  of  sheep-bells.  Sometimes  a  flock 
will  be  seen,  dimly  in  the  starlight,  feeding 
beside  the  road;  and  watching,  from  an  over- 
looking standpoint  on  a  rock  or  little  up- 
swelling  hill-top,  will  be  its  shepherd :  a  tall 
muffled  figure  showing  black  against  the 
s  113 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

loom  of  the  sky.  And  it  all  is  touched,  in  the 
star-haze  of  those  sombre  solitudes,  with  the 
poetic  realism  of  unreality;  while  its  deeper 
meaning  is  aroused  by  the  stone  crosses,  tell- 
ing of  Calvary,  which  are  found  at  every  part- 
ing of  the  ways.  Told  to  simple  dwellers  in 
such  a  land  the  Bible  story  was  neither  vague 
nor  remote.  They  knew  its  setting  because 
their  own  surroundings  were  the  same.  They 
practised  the  shepherd  customs;  the  ass  was 
their  own  beast  of  burden;  the  tending  of 
vines  and  fig-trees  and  olive-orchards  was  a 
part  of  their  daily  lives.  And  so,  naturally, 
the  older  noel  writers  without  any  thought 
of  anachronism,  and  the  modern  writers  by 
poetic  instinct,  made  complete  their  transla- 
tion of  the  story  of  the  Nativity  into  their 
vernacular  by  transferring  its  scene  to  their 
own  land. 

XV 

It    was    with    Saboly's    "Hdu,   de    l'hou- 

stau!"    that  our   singing   began.     It  is   one 

of  the  series  in  his  history  of  the  Nativity 

and  is  the  most  popular  of  all  his  noels:  a 

114 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

dialogue  between  Saint  Joseph  and  the  Beth- 
lehem inn-keeper,  that  opens  with  a  sweet  and 
plaintive  long-drawn  note  of  supplication  as 
Saint  Joseph  timorously  calls : 

"  O-o-oh,  there,  the  house!     Master!     Mistress! 
Varlet!     Maid!     Is  no  one  there?" 

And  then  it  continues  with  humble  entreaties 
for  shelter  for  himself  and  his  wife,  who  is 
very  near  her  time;  to  which  the  host  replies 
with  rough  refusals  for  a  while,  but  in  the  end 
grants  grudgingly  a  corner  of  his  stable  in 
which  the  wayfarers  may  lie  for  the  night. 

Esperit  and  Magali  sang  this  responsively ; 
Magali  taking  Saint  Joseph's  part — in  which, 
in  all  the  noels,  is  a  strain  of  feminine  sweet- 
ness and  gentleness.  Then  Marius  and  Es- 
perit, in  the  same  fashion,  sang  the  famous 
"C'est  le  bon  lever" :  a  dialogue  between  an 
Angel  and  a  Shepherd,  in  which  the  Angel — 
as  becomes  so  exalted  a  personage — speaks 
French,  while  the  Shepherd  speaks  Provencal. 

"It's  high  time  to  get  up,  sweet  shepherd," 
the  Angel  begins ;  and  goes  on  to  tell  that "  in 
Bethlehem,  quite  near  this  place,"  the  Sav- 
iour of  the  world  has  been  born  of  a  Virgin. 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


"  Perhaps  you  take  me  for  a  common  peas- 
ant," the  Shepherd  answers,  "talking  to  me 
like  that!  I  am  poor,  but  I'd  have  you  to 
know  that  I  come  of  good  stock.  In  old  times 
my  great-great-grandfather  was  maj^or  of 
our  village!  And  who  are  you,  anyway, 
fine  sir?  Are  3Tou  a  Jew  or  a  Dutchman? 
Your  jargon  makes  me  laugh.  A  virgin 
mother!  A  child  god!  No,  never  were  such 
things  heard!" 

But  when  the  Angel  reiterates  his  strange 
statement  the  Shepherd's  interest  is  aroused. 
He  declares  that  he  will  go  at  once  and  steal 
this  miraculous  child ;  and  he  quite  takes  the 
Angel  into  his  confidence — as  though  stand- 
ing close  to  his  elbow  and  speaking  as  friend 
to  friend.  In  the  end,  of  course,  he  is  con- 
vinced of  the  miracle,  and  says  that  he  "  will 
get  the  ass  and  set  forth"  to  join  the  worship- 
pers about  the  manger  at  Bethlehem. 

There  are  many  of  these  noels  in  dialogue; 
and  most  of  them  are  touched  with  this  same 
quality  of  easy  familiarity  with  sacred  sub- 
jects, and  abound  in  turns  of  broad  humour 
which  render  them  not  a  little  startling  from 
our  nicer  point  of  view.  But  they  never  are 
116 


the  Christmas  Kaunas  of  Provence 

coarse,  and  their  simplicity  saves  them  from 
being  irreverent;  nor  is  there,  I  am  sure,  the 
least  thought  of  irreverence  on  the  part  of 
those  by  whom  they  are  sung.  I  noticed, 
though,  that  these  lively  numbers  were  the 
ones  which  most  hit  the  fancy  of  the  men; 
while  the  women  as  plainly  showed  their 
liking  for  those  of  a  finer  spirit  in  which  the 
dominant  qualities  were  pathos  and  grace. 

Of  this  latter  class  is  Roumanille's  rarely 
beautiful  noel  "The  Blind  Girl"  ("La  Chato 
Avuglo") — that  Magali  sang  with  a  tender- 
ness which  set  the  women  to  crying  openly, 
and  which  made  the  older  men  cough  a  little 
and  look  suspiciously  red  about  the  eyes. 
Of  all  the  modern  noels  it  has  come  closest  to 
and  has  taken  the  strongest  hold  upon  the 
popular  heart :  this  pathetic  story  of  the  child 
"blind  from  her  birth"  who  pleads  with  her 
mother  that  she  also  may  go  with  the  rest  to 
Bethlehem,  urging  that  though  she  cannot 
see  "the  lovely  golden  face"  she  still  may 
touch  the  Christ-Child's  hand. 

And  when,  all  thrilling,  to  the  stable  she  was  come 
She  placed  the  little  hand  of  Jesus  on  her  heart — 
And  saw  him  whom  she  touched! 
117 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

But  without  the  music,  and  with  only  these 
crude  translations  in  which  is  lost  also  the 
music  of  the  words,  I  feel  that  I  am  giving 
very  much  less  than  the  true  effect  of  these 
Provencal  Christmas  songs.  To  be  appre- 
ciated, to  be  understood,  they  must  be  heard 
as  I  heard  them:  sung  by  that  Christmas 
company,  with  Magali's  tenderly  vibrant 
voice  leading  the  chorus  in  which  every  one 
of  those  singing  Provencaux  joined.  Even 
the  old  grandfather  —  still  standing  at  the 
fire-place — marked  the  time  of  the  music  with 
the  knife  that  he  held  in  his  hand;  and  his 
thin  old  voice  piped  in  with  the  others,  and 
had  a  gay  or  a  tender  ring  in  it  with  the 
changing  melody,  for  all  that  it  was  so 
cracked  and  shrill. 

1  am  persuaded,  so  thoroughly  did  they 
all  enjoy  their  own  carolling,  that  the  sing- 
ing of  noels  would  have  gone  on  until  broad 
da3Tlight  had  it  not  been  for  the  intervention 
of  the  midnight  mass.  But  the  mass  of 
Christmas  Eve  —  or,  rather,  of  Christmas 
morning — is  a  matter  not  only  of  pleasure 
but  of  obligation.  Even  those  upon  whom 
churchly  requirements  at  other  times  rest 
118 


THE    BLIND   GIRL  "—NOEL 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

lightly  rarely  fail  to  attend  it;  and  to  the 
faithful  it  is  the  most  touchingly  beautiful — 
as  Easter  is  the  most  joyous — church  fes- 
tival of  the  year. 

By  eleven  o'clock,  therefore,  we  were  under 
way  for  our  walk  of  a  mile  or  so  down  the 
long  slope  of  the  hill  side  to  the  village:  a 
little  clump  of  houses  threaded  by  narrow 
crooked  streets  and  still  in  part  surrounded 
by  the  crusty  remnant  of  a  battlemented 
wall — that  had  its  uses  in  the  days  when  rob- 
ber barons  took  their  airings  and  when  pil- 
laging Saracens  came  sailing  up  the  slack- 
water  lower  reaches  of  the  Rhone.  Down  the 
white  road  in  the  moonlight  we  went  in  a 
straggling  company,  while  more  and  more 
loudly  came  to  us  through  the  crisp  night 
air  the  sound  of  the  Christmas  bells. 

Presently  some  one  started  a  very  sweet 
and  plaintive  noel :  fairly  heart-wringing  in 
its  tender  beseeching  and  soft  lament,  yet 
with  a  consoling  under-note  to  which  it  con- 
stantly returned.  I  think,  but  I  am  not  sure, 
that  it  was  Roumanille's  noel  telling  of  the 
widowed  mother  who  carried  the  cradle  of 
her  own  baby  to  the  Virgin,  that  the  Christ- 
119 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


Child  might  not  lie  on  straw.  One  by  one  the 
other  voices  took  up  the  strain,  until  in  a  full 
chorus  the  sorrowingly  compassionate  melody 
went  thrilling  through  the  moonlit  silence  of 
the  night. 

And  so,  singing,  we  walked  by  the  white 
way  onward;  hearing  as  we  neared  the  town 
the  songs  of  other  companies  coming  up,  as 
ours  was,  from  outlying  farms.  And  when 
they  and  we  had  passed  in  through  the  gate- 
ways— where  the  townsfolk  of  old  lashed  out 
against  their  robber  Infidel  and  robber  Chris- 
tian enemies  —  all  the  black  little  narrow 
streets  were  filled  with  an  undertone  of  mur- 
muring voices  and  an  overtone  of  clear  sweet 
song. 

XVI 

On  the  little  Grande  Place  the  crowd 
was  packed  densely.  There  the  several 
streams  of  humanity  pouring  into  the  town 
met  and  mingled;  and  thence  in  a  strong 
current  flowed  onward  into  the  church.  Com- 
ing from  the  blackness  without — for  the  tall 
houses  surrounding  the  Grande  Place  cut  off 
120 


tin  £bri$tma$  Kal*nd*  of  Prooence 

the  moonlight  and  made  it  a  little  pocket  of 
darkness — it  was  with  a  shock  of  splendour 
that  we  encountered  the  brightness  within. 
All  the  side-altars  were  blazing  with  candles ; 
and  as  the  service  went  on,  and  the  high-altar 
also  flamed  up,  the  whole  building  was  filled 
with  a  soft  radiance — save  that  strange  lu- 
minous shadows  lingered  in  the  lofty  vault- 
ing of  the  nave. 

After  the  high-altar,  the  most  brilliant  spot 
was  the  altar  of  Saint  Joseph,  in  the  west 
transept;  beside  which  was  a  magnificent 
creche — the  figures  half  life-size,  beautifully 
modelled,  and  richly  clothed.  But  there  was 
nothing  whimsical  about  this  creche:  the 
group  might  have  been,  and  very  possibly 
had  been,  composed  after  a  well  -  painted 
"Nativity"  by  some  artist  of  the  late  Renais- 
sance. 

The  mass  was  the  customary  office;  but  at 
the  Offertory  it  was  interrupted  by  a  cere- 
mony that  gave  it  suddenly  an  entirely  Mediae- 
val cast :  of  which  I  felt  more  fully  the  beauty, 
and  the  strangeness  in  our  time,  because  the 
Vidame  sedulously  had  guarded  against  my 
having  knowledge  of  it  in  advance.  This 
121 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

was  nothing  less  than  a  living  rendering  of 
the  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds:  done  with  a 
simplicity  to  make  one  fancy  the  figures  in 
Ghirlandojo's  picture  were  alive  again  and 
stirred  by  the  very  spirit  that  animated  them 
when  they  were  set  on  canvas  four  hundred 
3'ears  ago. 

By  some  means  only  a  little  short  of  a  mira- 
cle, a  way  was  opened  through  the  dense 
crowd  along  the  centre  of  the  nave  from  the 
door  to  the  altar,  and  up  this  way  with  their 
offerings  real  shepherds  came — the  quaintest 
procession  that  anywhere  I  have  ever  seen. 
In  the  lead  were  four  musicians  —  playing 
upon  the  tambourin,  the  galoubet,  the  very 
small  cymbals  called  palets,  and  the  bagpipe- 
like carlamuso — and  then,  two  by  two,  came 
ten  shepherds :  wearing  the  long  brown  full 
cloaks,  weather  -  stained  and  patched  and 
mended,  which  seem  always  to  have  come 
down  through  many  generations  and  which 
never  by  any  chance  are  new ;  carrying  tucked 
beneath  their  arms  their  battered  felt  hats 
browned,  like  their  cloaks,  by  long  warfare 
with  sun  and  rain;  holding  in  one  hand  a 
lighted  candle  and  in  the  other  a  staff.  The 
122 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

two  leaders  dispensing  with  staves  and  can- 
dles, bore  garlanded  baskets;  one  filled  with 
fruit — melons,  pears,  apples,  and  grapes — 
and  in  the  other  a  pair  of  doves :  which  with 
sharp  quick  motions  turned  their  heads  from 
side  to  side  as  they  gazed  wonderingly  on 
their  strange  surroundings  with  their  bright 
beautiful  eyes. 

Following  came  the  main  offering :  a  spot- 
less lamb.  Most  originally,  and  in  a  way 
poetically,  was  this  offering  made.  Drawn 
by  a  mild-faced  ewe,  whose  fleece  had  been 
washed  to  a  wonder  of  whiteness  and  who 
was  decked  out  with  bright-coloured  ribbons 
in  a  way  to  unhinge  with  vanity  her  sheepish 
mind,  was  a  little  two-wheeled  cart — all  gar- 
landed wTith  laurel  and  holly,  and  bedizened 
with  knots  of  ribbon  and  pink  paper  roses 
and  glittering  little  objects  such  as  are  hung 
on  Christmas-trees  in  other  lands.  Lying  in 
the  cart  placidly,  not  bound  and  not  in  the 
least  frightened,  was  the  dazzlingly- white 
lamb,  decked  like  the  ewe  with  knots  of  rib- 
bon and  wearing  about  its  neck  a  red  collar 
brilliant  to  behold.  Now  and  then  the  ewe 
would  turn  to  look  at  it,  and  in  response  to 
123 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Prouence 


one  of  those  wistful  maternal  glances  the  lit- 
tle creature  stood  up  shakily  on  its  unduly 
long  legs  and  gave  an  anxious  baa!  But 
when  a  shepherd  bent  over  and  stroked  it 
gently,  it  was  reassured;  lying  down  con- 
tentedly again  in  its  queer  little  car  of  tri- 
umph, and  thereafter  through  the  ceremony 
remaining  still.  Behind  the  car  came  ten 
more  shepherds;  and  in  their  wake  a  long 
double  line  of  country-folk,  each  with  a 
lighted  candle  in  hand.  There  is  difficulty, 
indeed,  in  keeping  that  part  of  the  demon- 
stration within  bounds,  because  it  is  esteemed 
an  honour  and  a  privilege  to  walk  in  the 
procession  of  the  offered  lamb. 

Slowly  that  strange  company  moved  toward 
the  altar,  where  the  ministering  priest  awaited 
its  coming ;  and  at  the  altar  steps  the  bearers 
of  the  fruit  and  the  doves  separated,  so  that 
the  little  cart  might  come  between  them  and 
their  offering  be  made  complete,  while  the 
other  shepherds  formed  a  semi-circle  in  the 
rear.  The  music  was  stilled,  and  the  priest 
accepted  and  set  upon  the  altar  the  baskets; 
and  then  extended  the  paten  that  the  shep- 
herds, kneeling,  might  kiss  it  in  token  of  their 
124 


Cbc  Christmas  Helenas  of  Provence 

offering  of  the  lamb.  This  completed  the 
ceremony.  The  tambourin  and  galoubet  and 
palets  and  carlamuso  all  together  struck  up 
again;  and  the  shepherds  and  the  lamb's 
car  passed  down  the  nave  between  the  files  of 
candle-bearers  and  so  out  through  the  door. 

Within  the  past  sixty  years  or  so  this  naive 
ceremony  has  fallen  more  and  more  into  dis- 
use. But  it  still  occasionally  is  revived — as 
at  Barbentane  in  1868,  and  Rognonas  in 
1894,  and  repeatedly  within  the  past  decade 
in  the  sheep-raising  parish  of  Maussane — by 
a  cure  who  is  at  one  with  his  flock  in  a  love 
for  the  customs  of  ancient  times.  Its  origin 
assuredly  goes  back  far  into  antiquity;  so 
very  far,  indeed,  that  the  airs  played  by  the 
musicians  in  the  procession  seem  by  com- 
parison quite  of  our  own  time:  yet  tradition 
ascribes  the  composition  of  those  airs  to  the 
good  King  Rene,  whose  happy  rule  over 
Provence  ended  more  than  four  centuries 
ago. 

Another  custom  of  a  somewhat  similar 
character,  observed  formerly  in  many  of  the 
Provencal  churches,  was  the  grouping  be- 
fore the  altar  at  the  mass  on  Christmas  Day 

I2=i 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

of  a  young  girl,  a  choir-boy,  and  a  dove:  in 
allegorical  representation  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
the  Angel  Gabriel,  and  the  Holy  Ghost.  But 
the  assembly  of  this  quaint  little  company 
long  since  ceased  to  be  a  part  of  the  Christ- 
mas rite. 

XVII 

When  the  stir  caused  by  the  coming  and 
the  going  of  the  shepherds  had  subsided,  the 
mass  went  on ;  with  no  change  from  the  usual 
observance,  until  the  Sacrament  was  admin- 
istered, save  that  there  was  a  vigorous  sing- 
ing of  noels.  It  was  congregational  singing 
of  a  very  enthusiastic  sort  —  indeed,  nothing 
short  of  gagging  every  one  of  them  could  have 
kept  those  song  -  loving  Provencaux  still — 
but  it  was  led  by  the  choir,  and  choristers 
took  the  solo  parts.  The  most  notable  num- 
ber was  the  famous  noel  in  which  the  crow- 
ing of  a  cock  alternates  with  the  note  of  a 
nightingale;  each  verse  beginning  with  a 
prodigious  cock-a-doodle-d-o-o !  and  then  rat- 
tling along  to  the  gayest  of  gay  airs.  The 
nightingale  was  not  a  brilliant  success;  but 
126 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Prosence 

the  cock-crowing  was  so  realistic  that  at  its 
first  outburst  I  thought  that  a  genuine  barn- 
yard gallant  was  up  in  the  organ  -  loft.  I 
learned  later  that  this  was  a  musical  tour-de- 
force for  which  the  organist  was  famed.  A 
buzz  of  delight  filled  the  church  after  each 
cock-crowing  volley;  and  I  fancy  that  I  was 
alone  in  finding  anything  odd  in  so  jaunty  a 
performance  within  church  walls.  The  view- 
point in  regard  to  such  matters  is  of  race  and 
education.  The  Provencaux,  who  are  born 
laughing,  are  not  necessarily  irreverent  be- 
cause even  in  sacred  places  they  sometimes 
are  frankly  gay. 

Assuredly,  there  was  no  lack  of  seemly 
decorum  when  the  moment  came  for  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  Sacrament;  which  rite  on 
Christmas  Eve  is  reserved  to  the  women,  the 
men  communing  on  Christmas  Day.  The 
women  who  were  to  partake — nearly  all  who 
were  present — wore  the  Provencal  costume, 
but  of  dark  colour.  Most  of  them  were  in 
black,  save  for  the  white  chapelle,  or  kerchief, 
and  the  scrap  of  white  which  shows  above  the 
ribbon  confining  the  knotted  hair.  But  be- 
fore going  up  to  the  altar  each  placed  upon 
127 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

her  head  a  white  gauze  veil,  so  long  and  so 
ample  that  her  whole  person  was  enveloped 
in  its  soft  folds;  and  the  women  were  so 
many,  and  their  action  was  with  such  sud- 
den unanimity,  that  in  a  moment  a  delicate 
mist  seemed  to  have  fallen  and  spread  its 
silvery  whiteness  over  all  the  throng. 

Singly  and  by  twos  and  threes  those  palely 
gleaming  figures  moved  toward  the  altar,  un- 
til more  than  a  hundred  of  them  were  crowd- 
ed together  before  the  sanctuary  rail.  Nearest 
to  the  rail,  being  privileged  to  partake  be- 
fore the  rest,  stood  a  row  of  black-robed  Sis- 
ters— teachers  in  the  parish  school — whose 
sombre  habits  made  a  vigorous  line  of  black 
against  the  dazzle  of  the  altar,  everywhere 
aflame  with  candles,  and  by  contrast  gave 
to  all  that  sweep  of  lustrous  misty  whiteness 
a  splendour  still  softer  and  more  strange. 
And  within  the  rail  the  rich  vestments  of  the 
ministering  priests,  and  the  rich  cloths  of 
the  altar,  all  in  a  flood  of  light,  added  a  warm 
colour-note  of  gorgeous  tones. 

Slowly  the  rite  went  on.  Twenty  at  a  time 
the  women,  kneeling,  ranged  themselves  at 
the  rail;  rising  to  give  room  to  others  when 
128 


CDc  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

they  had  partaken,  and  so  returning  to  their 
seats.  For  a  full  half  hour  those  pale  lam- 
bent figures  were  moving  ghost-like  about  the 
church,  while  the  white-veiled  throng  before 
the  altar  gradually  diminished  until  at  last 
it  disappeared:  fading  from  sight  a  little  at 
a  time,  softly  —  as  dream-visions  of  things 
beautiful  melt  away. 

Presently  came  the  benediction :  and  all 
together  we  streamed  out  from  the  brightness 
of  the  church  into  the  wintry  darkness — 
being  by  that  time  well  into  Christmas  morn- 
ing, and  the  moon  gone  down.  But  when 
we  had  left  behind  us  the  black  streets  of  the 
little  town,  and  were  come  out  into  the  open 
country,  the  star-haze  sufficed  to  light  us  as 
we  went  onward  by  the  windings  of  the  spec- 
tral white  road :  for  the  stars  shine  very  glori- 
ously in  Provence. 

We  elders  kept  together  staidly,  as  became 
the  gravity  of  our  years;  but  the  young  peo- 
ple— save  two  of  them — frolicked  on  ahead 
and  took  again  with  a  will  to  singing  noels; 
and  from  afar  we  heard  through  the  night- 
stillness,  sweetly,  other  home  -  going  com- 
9  129 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

panies  singing  these  glad  Christmas  songs. 
Lingering  behind  us,  following  slowly,  came 
Esperit  and  Magali  —  to  whom  that  Christ- 
mas-tide had  brought  a  life-time's  happiness. 
They  did  not  join  in  the  joy-songs,  nor  did  I 
hear  them  talking.  The  fullest  love  is  still. 
And  peace  and  good-will  were  with  us  as 
we  went  along  the  white  way  homeward  be- 
neath the  Christmas  morning  stars. 

Saint-Remy-de-Provence, 

September,  1896. 


H   feast  Day  on  the   Rftone 


H     ?ea$t-Day  on   the   Rhone 


THIS  water  feast-day  was  a  part  of  the 
biennial  pilgrimage  to  the  Sainte-Estelle 
of  the  Felibrige  and  the  Cigaliers :  the  two  F6- 
librien  societies  maintained  in  Paris  by  the 
children  of  the  South  of  France.  Through 
twenty-three  dreary  months  those  expatriated 
ones  exist  in  the  chill  North;  in  the  blessed 
twenty-fourth  month — always  in  burning  Au- 
gust, when  the  melons  are  luscious  ripe  and 
the  grapes  are  ripening,  when  the  sun  they 
love  so  well  is  blazing  his  best  and  the  whole 
land  is  a-quiver  with  a  thrilling  stimulating 
heat — they  go  joyously  southward  upon  an 
excursion  which  has  for  its  climax  the  great 
Felibrien  festival :  and  then,  in  their  own 
gloriously  hot  Midi,  they  really  live! 

By  a  semi-right  and  by  a  large  courtesy, 
we  of  America  were  of  this  gay  party.     Four 
years  earlier,  as  the  official  representatives 
133 


Cbe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

of  an  American  troubadour,  we  had  come  upon 
an  embassy  to  the  troubadours  of  Provence; 
and  such  warm  relations  had  sprung  up  be- 
tween ourselves  and  the  poets  to  whom  we 
were  accredited  that  they  had  ended  by  making 
us  members  of  their  own  elect  body:  the  So- 
ciety of  the  Felibrige  —  wherein  are  united 
the  troubadours  of  these  modern  times.  As 
Felibres,  therefore,  it  was  not  merely  our 
right  but  our  duty  to  attend  the  festival  of 
the  Sainte  -  Estelle ;  and  our  official  notifica- 
tion in  regard  to  this  meeting — received  in 
Newr  York  on  a  chill  day  in  the  early  spring- 
time— announced  also  that  we  were  privileged 
to  journey  on  the  special  steamboat  chartered 
by  our  brethren  of  Paris  for  the  run  from 
Lyons  to  Avignon  down  the  Rhone. 


n 


We  were  called  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing. Even  the  little  birds  of  Lyons  were 
drowsy  at  that  untoward  and  melancholy 
hour.  As  I  slowly  roused  myself  I  heard 
their  sleepy  twitterings  out  in  the  trees 
134 


J\  Yeast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

on  the  Cours  du  Midi — and  my  sympathies 
were  with  them.  There  are  natures  which 
are  quickened  and  strengthened  by  the  early 
day.  Mine  is  not  such.  I  know  of  nothing 
which  so  numbs  what  I  am  pleased  to  term 
my  faculties  as  to  be  particeps  criminis  in 
the  rising  of  the  sun. 

But  life  was  several  shades  less  cheerless 
by  the  time  that  we  left  the  Hotel  Univers — 
which  I  ever  shall  remember  gratefully  be- 
cause it  ministered  so  well,  even  in  the  very 
midst  of  the  driving  bustle  of  the  Lyons  Ex- 
position, to  our  somewhat  exacting  needs — 
and  went  down  to  the  river  side.  Already 
the  mists  of  morning  had  risen,  and  in 
their  place  was  the  radiant  sunshine  of  the 
Midi:  that  penetrating,  tingling  sunshine 
which  sets  the  blood  to  dancing  and  thence 
gets  into  the  brain  and  breeds  extravagant 
fancies  there  which  straightway  are  uttered 
as  substantial  truths — as  M.  Daudet  so  often 
has  told  us;  and  also,  when  writing  about 
this  his  own  dearly-loved  birth-land,  so  often 
has  demonstrated  in  his  own  text. 

Yet  had  we  come  to  the  boat  while  still  in 
the  lowering  mood  begotten  of  our  intem- 
135 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 


perate  palterings  with  the  dawn  we  must 
have  yielded  quickly  to  the  infectious  cheer- 
fulness which  obtained  on  board  the  Gladia- 
teur.  Even  a  Grey  Penitent  would  have  been 
moved,  coming  unawares  into  that  gay  com- 
pany, to  throw  off  his  cagoule  and  to  dance  a 
saraband.  From  end  to  end  the  big  Gladia- 
teur  was  bright  with  bunting — flags  set  in 
clusters  on  the  great  paddle-boxes,  on  the 
bow,  on  the  stern — and  the  company  throng- 
ing on  board  was  living  up  to  the  brightness 
of  the  sunshine  and  the  flags. 

For  they  were  going  home,  home  to  their 
dear  South,  those  poet  exiles :  and  their  joy 
was  so  strong  within  them  that  it  almost 
touched  the  edge  of  tears.  I  could  under- 
stand their  feeling  because  of  a  talk  that  I 
had  had  three  days  before,  in  Paris,  with 
Baptiste  Bonnet:  up  in  his  little  apartment 
under  the  mansard,  with  an  outlook  over  the 
flowers  in  the  window  -  garden  across  roof- 
tops to  Notre  Dame.  Bonnet  could  not  come 
upon  this  expedition  —  and  what  love  and 
longing  there  was  in  his  voice  while  he  talked 
to  us  about  the  radiant  land  which  to  him 
was  forbidden  but  which  we  so  soon  were  to 
136 


B  ycast'Day  on  the  R1)6iu 

see!  To  know  that  we  were  going,  while  he 
remained  behind,  made  us  feel  like  a  brace 
of  Jacobs;  and  when  Madame  Bonnet  made 
delicious  tea  for  us — "because  the  English 
like  tea,"  as  she  explained  with  a  clear  kind- 
liness that  in  no  wise  was  lessened  by  her 
misty  ethnology — we  felt  that  so  to  prey 
upon  their  hospitality  in  the  very  moment 
that  we  were  making  off  with  their  birth- 
right was  of  the  blackest  of  crimes.  But 
because  of  what  our  dear  Bonnet  had  said, 
and  of  the  way  in  which  he  had  said  it, 
I  understood  the  deep  feeling  that  under- 
lay the  exuberant  gayety  of  our  boat- 
mates  —  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  there 
was  a  very  tender  note  of  pathos  in  their 

joy- 

They  were  of  all  sorts  and  conditions,  our 
boat-mates:  a  few  famous  throughout  the 
world,  as  the  player  Mounet-Sully,  the  painter 
Benjamin  Constant,  the  prose  poet  Paul 
Arene;  many  famous  throughout  France;  and 
even  in  the  rank  and  file  few  who  had  not 
raised  themselves  above  the  multitude  in  one 
or  another  of  the  domains  of  art.  And  all  of 
them  were  bound  together  in  a  democratic 
137 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

brotherhood,  which  yet  —  because  the  abso- 
lute essential  to  membership  in  it  was  genius 
— was  an  artistic  aristocracy.  With  their 
spiritual  honours  had  come  to  man}'  of  them 
honours  temporal;  indeed,  so  plentiful  were 
the  purple  ribbons  of  the  Palms  and  the  red 
rosette  of  the  Legion — with  here  and  there 
even  a  Legion  button — as  to  suggest  that  the 
entire  company  had  been  caught  out  without 
umbrellas  while  a  brisk  shower  of  decorations 
passed  their  way.  A  less  general,  and  a  far 
more  picturesque,  decoration  was  the  enam- 
elled cigale  worn  by  the  Cigaliers:  at  once 
the  emblem  of  their  Society,  of  the  Felibrien 
movement,  and  of  the  glowing  South  where 
that  gayest  of  insects  is  born  and  sings  his 
life  out  in  the  summer  days. 

Most  of  the  poets  came  to  the  boat  break- 
fastless,  and  their  first  move  on  board  was 
toward  the  little  cabin  on  deck  wherein  coffee 
was  served.  The  headwaiter  at  the  impro- 
vised breakfast  table — as  I  inferred  not  less 
from  his  look  and  manner  than  from  his 
ostentatiously  professed  ignorance  of  his  na- 
tive tongue — was  an  English  duke  in  re- 
duced circumstances;  and  his  assistants,  I 
138 


H  Yeast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

fancy,  were  retired  French  senators.  In- 
deed, those  dignified  functionaries  had  about 
them  an  air  of  high  comedy  so  irresistible, 
and  so  many  of  the  ladies  whom  they  served 
were  personages  of  the  Odeon  or  the  Comedie 
Francaise,  that  only  the  smell  of  the  coffee 
saved  the  scene  from  lapsing  into  the  un- 
realism  of  the  realistic  stage. 

Seven  o'clock  came,  but  the  Gladiateur 
remained  passive.  At  the  gang-plank  were 
assembled  the  responsible  heads  of  the  ex- 
pedition— who  were  anything  but  passive. 
They  all  were  talking  at  once,  and  all  were 
engaged  in  making  gestures  expressive  of  an 
important  member  of  the  party  who  had  been 
especially  charged  to  be  on  hand  in  ample 
time;  who  had  outraged  every  moral  princi- 
ple by  failing  to  keep  his  appointment ;  whose 
whereabouts  could  not  be  even  remotely  sur- 
mised; whose  absence  was  the  equivalent  of 
ruin  and  despair — a  far  less  complex  series  of 
concepts,  I  may  add,  than  a  southern  French- 
man is  capable  of  expressing  with  his  head 
and  his  body  and  his  hands. 

It  was  the  pianist. 

A  grave  Majoral,  reaching  down  to  the 
139 


Che   Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

kernel  of  the  matter,  solved  the  difficulty 
with  the  question:  "Have  we  the  piano?" 

"We  have." 

"Enough!"  cried  the  Majoral.  "Let  us 
go." 

In  a  moment  the  gang-plank  was  drawn 
aboard;  the  lines  were  cast  off;  the  great 
paddle-wheels  began  to  turn;  the  swift  cur- 
rent laid  hold  upon  us — and  the  Gladialeur, 
slipping  away  from  the  bank,  headed  for  the 
channel -arch  of  the  Pont -du- Midi.  The 
bridge  was  thronged  with  our  friends  of  Lyons 
come  down  to  say  good-bye  to  us.  Above 
the  parapet  their  heads  cut  sharp  against  the 
morning  glitter  of  the  sun-bright  sky.  All 
together  they  cheered  us  as  we,  also  cheering, 
shot  beneath  them:  and  then  the  bridge, 
half  hidden  in  the  cloud  of  smoke  from  our 
huge  funnel,  was  behind  us — and  our  voyage 
was  begun. 


Ill 


Of   all   the  rivers  which,  being  navigable, 
do   serious   work   in    the   world   the    Rhone 
is  the  most  devil-may-care  and  light-hearted. 
140 


J\  Tcast-Day  on  the  KD$ne 

In  its  five  hundred  mile  dash  down  hill  from 
the  Lake  of  Geneva  to  the  Mediterranean  its 
only  purpose — other  than  that  of  doing  all 
the  mischief  possible — seems  to  be  frolic  fun. 
And  yet  for  more  than  two  thousand  years 
this  apparently  frivolous,  and  frequently  ma- 
levolent, river  has  been  very  usefully  employ- 
ed in  the  service  of  mankind. 

In  the  misty  barbaric  ages  before  history 
fairly  began,  and  in  the  early  times  of  the 
Roman  domination,  the  Rhone  was  the  sole 
highway  into  northern  Gaul  from  the  Medi- 
terranean; later,  when  the  Gallic  system  of 
Roman  roads  had  been  constructed,  it  held 
its  own  fairly  well  against  the  two  roads 
which  paralleled  it  —  that  on  the  east  bank 
throughout  almost  its  entire  length,  and  that 
on  the  west  bank  from  Lyons  southward  to  a 
point  about  opposite  to  the  present  Monteli- 
mar;  in  the  semi  -  barbarous  Middle  Ages — 
when  the  excitements  of  travel  were  increased 
by  the  presence  of  a  robber -count  at  every 
ford  and  in  every  mountain-pass — it  became 
again  more  important  than  the  parallel  high- 
ways on  land ;  and  in  our  own  day  the  con- 
ditions of  Roman  times,  relatively  speaking, 
141 


Cne  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 


are  restored  once  more  by  steamboats  on  the 
river  and  railways  on  the  lines  of  the  ancient 
roads.  And  so,  having  served  these  several 
masters,  the  Rhone  valley  of  the  present  day  is 
stored  everywhere  with  remnants  of  the  bar- 
barism, of  the  civilization,  and  of  the  semi- 
barbarism  which  successively  have  been 
ploughed  under  its  surface  before  what  we 
have  the  temerity  to  call  our  own  civilization 
began.  Keltic  flints  and  pottery  underlie  Ro- 
man ruins ;  just  beneath  the  soil,  or  still  sur- 
viving above  it,  are  remains  of  Roman  mag- 
nificence; and  on  almost  all  the  hill-tops  still 
stand  the  broken  strongholds  of  the  robber 
nobles  who  maintained  their  nobility  upon 
what  they  were  lucky  enough  to  be  able  to 
steal.  Naturally — those  ruined  castles,  and  the 
still-existent  towns  of  the  same  period,  being 
so  conspicuously  in  evidence— the  flavour  of 
the  river  is  most  distinctly  Mediaeval;  but  a 
journey  in  this  region,  with  eyes  open  to  per- 
ceive as  well  as  to  see,  is  a  veritable  descent 
into  the  depths  of  the  ancient  past. 

Indeed,  the  Gladiateur  had  but  little  more 
than  swung  clear  from  Lyons — around  the 
long  curve  where  the  Saone  and  the  Rhone 
142 


fl   Tcast  Day  on  the  Rhone 

are  united  and  the  stream  suddenly  is  dou- 
bled in  size  —  than  we  were  carried  back  to 
the  very  dawn  of  historic  times.  Before  us, 
stretching  away  to  the  eastward,  was  the 
broad  plain  of  Saint  -  Fons  —  once  covered 
with  an  oak  forest  to  which  Druid  priests 
bearing  golden  sickles  came  from  the  lie 
Barbe  at  Yule-tide  to  gather  mistletoe  for  the 
great  Pagan  feast;  later,  a  battle-field  where 
Clodius  Albinus  and  Septimius  Severus  came 
to  a  definite  understanding  in  regard  to  the 
rulership  of  Gaul;  later  still,  the  site  of  a 
pleasure  castle  of  the  Archbishops  of  Lyons, 
and  of  the  Villa  Longchene  to  which  light- 
hearted  Lyons'  nobles  came.  Palace  and 
Villa  still  are  there — the  one  a  Dominican 
school,  the  other  a  hospital  endowed  by  the 
Empress  Eugenie:  but  the  oaks  and  the 
Druids  and  the  battle  are  only  faint  legends 
now. 

I  am  forced  to  admit  that  never  a  thought 
was  given  to  that  aggregation  of  antiquities 
by  the  too-frivolous  passengers  aboard  the 
Gladiateur.  At  the  very  moment  when  we 
were  steaming  through  those  Gallo-Roman 
and  Mediaeval  latitudes  there  was  a  burst  of 
143 


the  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 


music  from  the  piano  that  fired  our  light- 
headed company  as  a  spark  fires  a  mine. 
The  music  was  the  air  of  "La  Coupe,"  the 
F6librien  Anthem,  and  instantly  a  hundred 
voices  took  up  the  song.  When  this  rite 
was  ended,  the  music  shifted  to  a  livelier  key 
and  straightway  a  farandole  was  formed. 
On  the  whole,  a  long  and  narrow  steamboat 
is  not  an  especially  good  place  for  a  faran- 
dole; but  the  leader  of  that  one — a  young 
person  from  the  Odeon,  whose  hair  came 
down  repeatedly  but  whose  exceptionally 
high  spirits  never  came  down  at  all — was 
not  one  of  the  sort  whom  difficulties  deter. 
At  the  head  of  the  long  line  of  dancers — a 
living  chain  held  together  by  clasped  hands 
— she  caracoled  and  curveted  up  and  down 
the  narrow  passes  of  the  boat;  and  after  her, 
also  caracoling  and  curveting,  came  the 
chain:  that  each  moment  grew  in  length  as 
volunteers  joined  it,  or  (in  keeping  with  faran- 
dole customs)  as  the  less  vivacious  members 
of  the  party  were  seized  upon  and  forcibly 
impressed  into  its  ranks.  And  so  we  faran- 
doled  clear  away  to  Givors. 
It  took  the  place  of  a  master  of  ceremonies, 
144 


n  Teast-Day  on  tfte  Rh3ne 

our  farandole,  and  acted  as  an  excellent 
solvent  of  formalities.  Yet  even  without  it 
there  would  have  been  none  of  the  stiff- 
ness and  reserve  which  would  have  chilled  a 
company  assembled  under  like  conditions  in 
English-speaking  lands.  Friendliness  and 
courtesy  are  characteristics  of  the  French  in 
general;  and  especially  did  our  American 
contingent  profit  by  those  amiable  traits  that 
day  on  the  Rhone.  Save  for  a  slight  cor- 
respondence with  a  single  member  of  the 
party,  all  aboard  the  boat  were  strangers  to 
us ;  but  in  that  kindly  atmosphere,  before  we 
had  time  to  fancy  that  we  were  outsiders,  we 
found  ourselves  among  friends. 

Givors  slipped  by  almost  unnoticed  in  the 
thick  of  the  farandole :  a  little  town  hung  out 
to  sun  in  long  strips  upon  terraces  rising 
from  the  water-side;  the  walls  and  tiled  roofs 
making  a  general  effect  of  warm  greys  and 
yellows  dashed  with  the  bright  greens  of 
shrubs  and  trees  and  gardens  and  the  yellow 
green  of  vines.  'Tis  a  town  of  some  com- 
mercial pretensions :  the  gateway  of  a  canal 
a  dozen  miles  long  leading  up  through  the 
valley  of  the  little  river  Gier  to  iron-works  and 
145 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 


coke- works  and  glass-works  tucked  away  in 
the  hills.  The  canal  was  projected  almost  a 
century  and  a  half  ago  as  a  connecting  chan- 
nel between  the  Rhone  and  the  Loire,  and  so 
between  the  Atlantic  and  the  Mediterranean ; 
wherefore  the  Canal  of  the  Two  Oceans  was, 
and  I  suppose  continues  to  be,  its  high-sound- 
ing name.  But  the  Revolution  came,  and 
the  digging  never  extended  beyond  that  first 
dozen  miles;  and  thus  it  is  that  the  Canal  of 
the  Two  Oceans,  as  such,  is  a  delusion,  and 
that  the  golden  future  which  once  lay  ahead 
of  Givors  nowr  lies  a  long  way  astern.  Yet 
the  town  has  an  easy  and  contented  look :  as 
though  it  had  saved  enough  from  the  wreck 
of  its  magnificent  destiny  to  leave  it  still 
comfortably  well  to  do. 

Before  we  fairly  had  passed  it,  and  while 
the  farandole  was  dying  out  slowly,  there 
crashed  down  upon  us  a  thunderous  out- 
burst of  song :  as  though  an  exceptionally 
large-lunged  seraph  were  afloat  immediately 
above  us  in  the  open  regions  of  the  air.  Yet 
the  song  was  of  a  gayer  sort  than  seraphs, 
presumably,  are  wont  to  sing ;  and  its  method, 
distinctly,  was  that  of  the  modern  operatic 
146 


J\  feast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

stage.  In  point  of  fact,  the  singer  was  not  a 
seraph,  but  an  eminent  professor  in  a  great 
institution  of  learning  and  a  literary  author- 
ity of  the  first  rank — whose  critical  summary 
of  French  literature  is  a  standard,  and  whose 
studies  of  Beaumarchais  and  Le  Sage  have 
been  crowned  by  the  Academy.  In  sheer 
joyousness  of  spirit  that  eminent  personage 
had  betaken  himself  to  the  top  of  the  port 
paddle-box,  and  thence  was  suffering  his 
mountain  -  cleaving  voice  to  go  at  large:  so 
quickening  was  the  company  in  which  he 
found  himself;  so  stimulating  was  the  racy 
fervour  of  his  own  Southern  sun ! 


IV 


From  Givors  the  river  runs  almost  in  a 
straight  line  to  Vienne.  On  both  shores 
rise  round  -  crested  wooded  hills  —  the  foot- 
hills of  the  parallel  ranges  of  mountains  by 
which  the  wide  valley  is  shut  in.  Down  this 
perspective,  commandingly  upon  a  height,  is 
seen  the  city — misty  and  uncertain  at  first, 
but  growing  clearer  and  clearer,  as  the  boat 
H7 


the  Christmas   Kalends  of  Prownec 

nears  it,  until  the  stone-work  of  man  and  the 
rock-work  of  nature  become  distinct  and  the 
picture  is  complete  in  all  its  parts :  the  time- 
browned  mass  of  houses  on  the  hill-top;  the 
tower  of  Philip  the  Fair;  over  all,  the  huge 
facade  of  Saint  Maurice — an  ogival  wonder 
that  for  centuries  was  the  cathedral  church 
of  the  Primates  of  Gaul. 

After  Marseille,  Vienne  makes  as  hand- 
some pretensions  to  age  as  are  made  by  any 
town  in  France.  The  tradition  of  its  found- 
ing lies  hidden  in  the  mists  of  heroic  legend, 
and  is  the  more  momentous  because  it  is  so 
impressively  vague.  Over  its  very  name  the 
etymologists  wrangle  with  such  violence  that 
one  is  lost  in  amazement  at  their  ill-tempered 
erudition;  and  over  its  structure  the  archae- 
ologists— though  a  bit  more  civil  to  each 
other — are  almost  as  violently  at  cross-pur- 
poses. The  best  esteemed  of  those  antiquary 
gentry — at  least  the  one  whom  I  esteem  the 
most,  because  I  like  the  fine  boldness  of  his 
claim — is  the  Dominican  chronicler  Lavinius : 
who  says  flatly  that  Vienne  was  founded  thir- 
teen centuries  before  the  dawn  of  the  Christian 
era  by  a  contemporary  of  Moses,  one  King 
148 


B  Tcast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

Allobrox — a  Keltic  sovereign  descended  from 
Hercules  in  a  right  line !  That  is  a  good  be- 
ginning; and  it  has  the  merit  of  embodying 
the  one  fact  upon  which  all  of  the  testy  anti- 
quaries are  agreed:  that  Vienne  the  Strong, 
as  folk  called  it  in  those  days,  was  a  flour- 
ishing town  long  before  Lyons  was  build- 
ed  or  Paris  even  thought  of,  and  an  age 
or  two  before  the  Romans  came  over  into 
Gaul. 

When  at  last  they  did  come,  the  Romans 
transformed  the  town  into  a  great  city — the 
metropolis  of  the  region  lying  between  Gene- 
va and  Marseille;  and  so  adorned  it  with  no- 
ble buildings — temples,  forum,  circus,  thea- 
tre, aqueducts,  baths — and  so  enriched  it  with 
all  manner  of  works  of  art,  that  it  came  to 
be  known  as  Vienne  the  Beautiful  through- 
out the  civilized  world.  One  temple,  approx- 
imately perfect,  has  survived  to  us  from  that 
time;  and  one  statue — the  famous  Crouch- 
ing Venus :  and  it  seems  fair  enough  to  ac- 
cept Vienne's  beauty  as  proved  by  these. 
Moreover,  painting  and  music  were  cultivated 
there,  together  with  the  other  arts :  and  from 
all  that  the  historians  have  to  tell  us  it  would 
149 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


appear  that  the  Roman  citizens  of  that  city 
lived  softly  and  well. 

In  the  dark  ages  of  Mediaeval  Christianity 
most  of  the  beauties  of  Vienne  vanished: 
being  destroyed  outright,  or  made  over  into 
buildings  pertaining  to  the  new  faith  and  the 
new  times.  A  pathetic  little  attempt,  to  be 
sure,  was  made  by  the  Viennese  to  hold  fast 
to  their  comfortable  Paganism — when  Valen- 
tinian  II.  was  slain,  and  the  old  rites  were  re- 
stored, at  the  end  of  the  fourth  century;  but 
it  was  a  mere  flash  in  the  pan.  The  tenden- 
cies of  the  times  were  too  strong  to  be  resisted, 
and  presently  the  new  creed  rode  down  the 
old.  Then  it  was  that  Vienne  was  called 
Vienne  the  Holy — because,  while  losing  noth- 
ing of  her  splendours  temporal,  she  gained 
great  store  of  splendours  spiritual :  whereof 
the  culmination  was  that  famous  Council, 
at  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
which  crushed  the  Templars  and  gave  over 
their  possessions  to  the  Crown.  While  the 
Council  deliberated,  Philip  the  Fair  "  watched 
his  case/'  as  the  lawyers  would  put  it,  from 
the  village  of  Sainte  -  Colombe — across  the 
river — where  he  was  quartered  with  his  court 
150 


J\  Yeast'Day  on  the  Rhone 

in  the  convent  of  the  Cordeliers;  and  in  Sainte- 
Colombe,  the  next  year,  he  built  the  tower 
that  was  to  safeguard  the  royal  domains 
against  the  aggressions  of  the  Archbishops: 
whose  too  -  notorious  holiness  was  making 
them  overbold. 

And  nowadays  Vienne  is  a  mean  little 
town;  a  withered  kernel  in  the  shell  of  its 
former  grandeur;  a  mere  sousprefecture; 
scarcely  more  than  a  manufacturing  suburb 
of  Lyons.  In  the  tower  of  Philip  the  Fair  are 
a  cheap  restaurant,  and  a  factory  of  maca- 
roni, and  a  carpenter-shop.  It  is  enough  to 
make  the  spirits  of  the  Roman  emperors  in- 
dignant and  the  bones  of  the  Archbishops 
rattle  dismally  in  their  graves.  No  longer 
either  strong,  or  beautiful,  or  holy,  they  call 
it  Vienne  the  Patriotic,  now.  A  city  must 
be  something,  of  course — and  patriotism  is 
an  attribute  that  may  be  had  for  the  claim- 
ing, in  these  days. 

But  the  saving  grace  of  poetry,  at  least  of 
the  love  of  poetry,  still  abides  in  Vienne:  as 
was  proved  in  a  manner  mightily  tickling  to 
our  self-complacency  as  we  swept  past  the 
town.  Taking  the  place  of  the  stone  bridge 
151 


Cnc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

that  was  built  in  Roman  times — and  so  well 
built  that  it  was  kept  in  service  almost  down 
to  our  own  da\r — a  suspension  bridge  here 
spans  the  stream :  and  the  poets  and  the  poet- 
lovers  of  Vienne  were  all  a-swarm  upon  it, 
their  heads  and  shoulders  rising  in  an 
animated  crenellation  above  its  rail,  in 
waiting  for  our  galley  to  go  by.  While  we 
still  were  a  hundred  yards  away  up  stream 
there  was  a  bustling  movement  among  them; 
and  then  a  bouquet,  swinging  at  the  end  of 
a  light  line,  was  lowered  away  swiftly — the 
bright  flowers  flashing  in  the  sunlight  as 
they  swayed  and  twirled.  Our  brethren  had 
calculated  to  a  nicety  where  our  boat  would 
pass.  Right  over  the  bow  came  the  bouquet, 
and  fairly  into  the  eager  hands  stretched  out 
for  it — while  a  great  cheer  went  up  from  the 
grateful  poets  in  the  boat  that  was  echoed  by 
the  generous  poets  in  the  air.  And  the  pret- 
tiest touch  of  all  was  the  garland  of  verses 
that  came  to  us  with  the  flowers :  to  bid  us 
welcome  and  to  wish  us  God-speed  on  our 
way.  Truly,  'twas  a  delicately  fine  bit  of  po- 
etic courtesy.  No  troubadour  in  the  days  of 
Vienne  the  Holy  (the  holiness  was  not  of  an 
152 


ft  Tcast'Day  on  tbe  Knonc 

austere  variety)  could  have  cast  a  more  grace- 
ful tribute  upon  the  passing  galley  of  the 
debonaire  Queen  Jeanne. 


Before  Vienne  the  river  cuts  its  way  narrow- 
ly through  the  rock,  and  on  each  side  the 
banks  lift  high  above  the  stream.  Far  above 
us  was  the  town,  rising  in  terraces  to  where 
was  the  citadel  in  the  days  of  Vienne  the 
Strong.  We  had  a  flying  glimpse  of  it  all  as 
we  flashed  past,  sped  by  the  current  and  our 
great  wheels;  and  then  the  valley  widened 
again,  and  soft  meadows  bordered  by  poplars 
and  gay  with  yellow  flowers  lay  between  us 
and  the  mountain  ranges  rising  to  right  and 
left  against  the  sky.  Here  and  there  along 
the  banks,  where  an  outcrop  of  rock  gave 
good  holding-ground,  were  anchored  floating 
grist-mills  carrying  huge  water-wheels  driven 
by  the  current — the  wooden  walls  so  browned 
with  age  that  they  seemed  to  have  held  over 
from  the  times  when  the  archbishops,  lording 
it  in  Vienne,  took  tithes  of  millers'  toll. 
153 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Proucncc 

We  were  come  into  a  country  of  corn  and 
wine.  The  mills  certified  to  the  corn;  and  as 
we  swung  around  the  curves  of  the  river  or 
shot  down  its  reaches  we  met  long  lean  steam- 
boats lighting  against  the  current  under 
heavy  ladings  of  big-bellied  wine-casks — on 
their  genial  way  northward  to  moisten  thirsty 
Paris  throats.  Off  on  the  right  bank  was 
the  ancient  manor  of  Mont-Lys,  where  be- 
gins the  growth  of  the  Cotes-Roties :  the  fa- 
mous red  and  white  wines,  called  the  brune 
and  the  blonde,  which  have  been  dear  to  bot- 
tle -  lovers  for  nearly  two  thousand  years : 
from  the  time  when  the  best  of  them  (such  as 
now  go  northward  to  Paris)  went  southward 
to  the  Greek  merchants  of  Marseille  and  so 
onward  to  Rome  to  be  sold  for,  literally,  their 
weight  in  gold.  And  as  to  the  melons  and 
apricots  which  grow  hereabouts,  'tis  enough 
to  say  that  Lyons  bereft  of  them  would  pine 
and  die. 

The  softly-swelling  banks,  capped  by  the 
long  lines  of  yellow-green  poplars,  slipped  by 
us  at  a  gallop;  while  the  mountains  in  the 
background,  seen  through  the  haze  of  flicker- 
ing leaves,  seemed  to  stand  still.  It  was  the 
154 


B  Tea$t«Day  on  the  Rhone 

most  peaceful  of  landscapes:  but  there  was 
endless  fighting  thereabouts  in  former  times. 
In  an  Early  Christian  way  the  archbishops 
of  Vienne  ravaged  among  the  Protestants; 
between  whiles  the  robber  -  counts,  without 
respect  to  creed,  ravaged  among  the  travelling 
public  with  a  large-minded  impartiality ;  and, 
down  in  the  lowest  rank  of  ravagers,  the  road- 
agents  of  the  period  stole  all  that  their  betters 
left  for  them  to  steal.  As  we  passed  the  little 
town  of  Condrieu — where  a  lonely  enthusi- 
ast stood  up  on  the  bank  and  waved  a  flag  at 
us — we  saw  overtopping  it,  on  a  fierce  little 
craggy  height,  the  ruined  stronghold  of  its 
ancient  lords.  Already,  in  the  thirty  miles 
or  thereabouts  that  we  had  come  since  leav- 
ing Lyons,  we  had  passed  a  half-dozen  or 
more  warlike  remnants  of  a  like  sort;  and 
throughout  the  run  to  Avignon  they  con- 
tinued at  about  the  rate  of  one  in  every  five 
miles. 

Singly,  the  histories  of  these  castles  are 
exceedingly  interesting  studies  in  Mediaeval 
barbarism;  but  collectively  they  become  a 
wearisomely  monotonous  accumulation  of 
horrors.  Yet  it  is  unfair  to  blame  the  lords 
155 


Che  Christmas    Kalends  of  Provence 

of  the  castles  for  their  lack  of  originality  in 
crime.  With  the  few  possible  combinations 
at  their  command,  the  Law  of  Permutation 
literally  compelled  them  to  do  the  same  things 
over  and  over  again  :  maintaining  or  sustain- 
ing sieges  ending  in  death  with  or  without 
quarter  for  the  besieged ;  leading  forays  for  the 
sake  of  plunder,  with  or  without  the  incentive 
of  revenge;  crushing  peasant  rebellions  by 
hanging  such  few  peasants  as  escaped  the 
sword;  and  at  all  times  robbing  every  unlucky 
merchant  who  chanced  to  come  their  way.  It 
was  a  curious  twist,  that  reversion  to  sav- 
agery, from  the  Roman  epoch :  when  the 
Rhone  Valley  was  inhabited  by  a  civilized 
people  who  encouraged  commerce  and  who 
had  a  genuine  love  for  the  arts.  And,  after 
all — unless  they  had  some  sort  of  pooling  ar- 
rangement —  the  robber  lords  in  the  mid- 
region  of  the  Rhone  could  not  have  found 
their  business  very  profitable.  Merchants 
travelling  south  from  Lyons  must  have  been 
poor  boot}'  b}T  the  time  that  they  had  passed 
Vienne;  and  merchants  travelling  north  from 
Avignon,  similarly,  must  have  been  well 
fleeced  by  the  time  that  they  were  come  to  the 
156 


B  ftast'Dav  on  tnc  Rhone 

Pont-Saint-Esprit.  Indeed,  the  lords  in  the 
middle  of  the  run  doubtless  were  hard  put  to  it 
at  times  to  make  any  sort  of  a  living  at  all. 
Nor  could  the  little  local  stealing  that  went  on 
have  helped  them  much — since,  their  respec- 
tive castles  being  not  more  than  five  miles 
asunder,  each  of  them  in  ordinary  times  was 
pulled  up  short  in  his  ravaging  at  the  end 
of  two  miles  and  a  half.  In  brief,  the  busi- 
ness was  overcrowded  in  all  its  branches, 
and  badly  managed  beside.  The  more  that  I 
look  into  the  history  of  that  time  the  more 
am  I  convinced  that  mediaevalism,  either  as 
an  institution  or  as  an  investment,  was  not 
a  success. 

Condrieu  is  a  dead  little  town  now.  As  a 
seat  of  thieving  industry  its  importance  dis- 
appeared centuries  ago;  and  its  importance 
as  a  boating  town — whence  were  recruited  a 
large  proportion  of  the  Rhone  boatmen — van- 
ished in  the  dawn  of  the  age  of  steam.  They 
were  good  fellows,  those  Condrieu  boatmen, 
renowned  for  their  bravery  and  their  hones- 
ty throughout  the  river's  length.  Because  of 
their  leather-seated  breeches  they  were  nick- 
named " Leather-tails" ;  but  their  more  sailor- 
157 


the  Christmas   Kalends  or  Provence 

like  distinction  was  their  tattooing:  on  the 
fore-arm  a  flaming  heart  pierced  with  an  ar- 
row, symbol  of  their  fidelity  and  love;  on  the 
breast  a  cross  and  anchor,  symbols  of  their 
faith  and  craft.  From  Roman  times  down- 
ward until  railways  came,  the  heavy  freight- 
ing of  central  France  has  been  done  by  boat 
upon  the  Rhone — in  precisely  the  same  fash- 
ion that  flat-boat  freighting  was  carried  on 
upon  the  Mississippi  and  its  tributaries — and 
three  or  four  of  the  river  towns  were  peo- 
pled mainly  by  members  of  the  boating  guilds. 
Trinquetaille,  the  western  suburb  of  Aries, 
still  shows  signs  of  the  nautical  tastes  of  its 
inhabitants  in  the  queer  sailor -like  exterior 
and  interior  adornments  of  its  houses :  most 
noticeable  of  which  is  the  setting  up  on  a 
house-top  of  a  good-sized  boat  full-rigged 
with  mast  and  sails. 

The  survivors  of  the  boating  period  nowa- 
days are  few.  Five  years  ago  I  used  to  see 
whenever  I  crossed  to  Trinquetaille  a  little 
group  of  old  boatmen  sitting  at  the  end  of  the 
bridge  on  a  long  bench  that  was  their  especial 
property.  They  moved  stiffly  and  slowly; 
their  white  heads  were  bowed  breastward; 
158 


J\  Tcast  Day  on  the  Rhone 

their  voices  were  cracked  with  age.  Yet 
they  seemed  to  be  cheery  together,  as  they 
basked  in  the  hot  sunshine — that  warmed  only 
comfortably  their  lean  old  bodies — and  talked 
of  ancient  victories  over  sand-bars  and  rapids : 
and  the  while  looked  southward  over  the 
broad  Rhone  water  toward  the  sea.  No 
doubt  they  held  in  scorn  their  few  successors 
— one  where  of  old  were  a  hundred — who 
navigate  the  Rhone  of  to-day,  clipped  of  its 
perils  by  dykes  and  beacons,  in  boats  driven 
by  steam. 

Yet  these  modern  mariners,  charged  with 
the  care  of  the  great  steamboats  two  and 
three  hundred  feet  long,  are  more  heroic  char- 
acters than  were  the  greatest  of  the  old-time 
navigators.  The  finest  sight  that  I  saw  in 
all  that  day  aboard  the  Gladiateur  was  our 
pilot  at  his  post  as  he  swung  us  around  cer- 
tain of  the  more  dangerous  of  the  curves : 
where  rocks  or  sand-bars  narrowed  the  chan- 
nel closely  and  where  a  fall  in  the  river-bed 
more  than  usually  abrupt  made  the  current 
fiercely  strong.  In  such  perilous  passes  he 
had  behind  him  in  a  row  at  the  long  tiller — 
these  boats  are  not  steered  by  a  wheel  forward, 
159 


Che   Christmas   Kalends  of   Province 

but  by  a  tiller  at  the  stern — two,  three,  and  at 
one  turn  four  men.  He  himself,  at  the  ex- 
treme end  of  the  tiller,  stood  firmly  posed  and 
a  little  leaning  forward,  his  body  rigid,  his 
face  set  in  resolute  lines,  his  eyes  fixedly 
bent  upon  the  course  ahead;  behind  him  the 
others,  elately  poised  in  readiness  to  swing 
their  whole  weight  with  his  on  the  instant 
that  his  tense  energy  in  repose  flashed  into 
energy  in  action  as  the  critical  turn  was  made 
— the  whole  group,  raised  above  us  on  the 
high  quarter-deck,  in  relief  against  the  deep 
blue  sky.  Amy,  or  another  of  the  Southern 
sculptors,  will  be  moved  some  day,  I  hope,  to 
seize  upon  that  thrilling  group  and  to  fasten 
it  forever  in  enduring  bronze. 


VI 


As  we  approached  the  bridge  of  Serrieres 
it  was  evident  that  another  demonstra- 
tion in  our  honour  was  imminent.  On  the 
bridge  a  small  but  energetic  crowd  was  as- 
sembled, and  we  could  see  a  bouquet  pendent 
from  a  cord  descending  toward  the  point 
1 60 


jfj  Yeast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

where  our  boat  was  expected  to  pass.  The 
projectors  of  that  floral  tribute  cheered  us 
finely  as  we  came  dashing  toward  them;  and 
up  in  our  bows  was  great  excitement — which 
suddenly  was  intensified  into  anguish  as  we 
perceived  that  our  admirers  had  made  a  mis- 
calculation: a  fateful  fact  that  was  antici- 
pated and  realized  almost  in  the  same  in- 
stant— as  we  saw  the  bouquet  level  with  our 
deck  but  forty  feet  away  a-beam!  Yet  good 
luck  saved  the  day  to  us.  As  we  shot  the 
bridge  we  also  rounded  a  curve,  and  a  mo- 
ment after  the  bow  of  the  long  Gladiateur 
had  gone  wide  of  the  bouquet  the  stern  had 
swung  around  beneath  it  and  it  was  brought 
safe  aboard.  In  the  same  breath  we  had 
passed  under  and  beyond  the  bridge  and 
were  sending  up  stream  to  our  benefactors 
our  cheers  of  thanks. 

When  the  discovery  was  made  that  a  bottle 
was  enshrined  among  the  flowers,  and  that 
upon  the  bottle  was  an  inscription  —  neces- 
sarily a  sonnet,  as  we  impulsively  decided — 
our  feeling  toward  Serrieres  was  of  the  warm- 
est. Without  question,  those  generous  creat- 
ures had  sent  us  of  their  best,  and  with  a 
»  161 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

posy  of  verse  straight  from  their  honest  hearts. 
Only  poets  ministering  to  poets  could  have 
conceived  so  pretty  a  scheme.  But  the  eager 
group  that  surrounded  the  Majoral  who  held 
the  bottle  flew  asunder  in  wrath  as  he  read 
out  loudly,  in  place  of  the  expected  sonnet, 
these  words:  "Quinine  prepared  by  Cuminat 
at  Serrieres"!  And  then  our  feeling  toward 
Serrieres  grew  much  less  warm.  Yet  I  am 
not  sure  that  Cuminat  was  moved  only  by 
the  sordid  wish  to  advertise  at  our  expense 
his  preparation  of  quinine.  I  am  disposed  to 
credit  him  in  part  with  a  helpful  desire  to 
check  the  fever  rising  in  the  blood  of  our  boat- 
load of  Southerners  who  each  moment  —  as 
they  slid  down  that  hill-side  of  a  river — were 
taking  deeper  and  stronger  drafts  of  the  heady 
sunshine  of  their  own  Southern  sun.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  am  forced  to  admit  that  had 
his  motive  been  pure  benevolence  his  offering 
would  not  have  been  so  pitiably  scant. 

But  the  people  of  Tournon — to  which  gen- 
erous town,  and  to  the  breakfast  provided  by 
its  cordial  inhabitants,  we  came  an  hour 
before  noon  —  entreated  us  with  so  prodigal 
a  liberality  in  the  matter  of  bottles  that  the 
162 


B  Tcast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

questionable  conduct  of  the  Serrieres  apothe- 
cary quickly  faded  from  our  minds.  In  an- 
cient times  Tournon  had  a  black  reputation 
for  its  evil  -  dealing  with  chance  wayfarers 
along  the  Rhone,  and  one's  blood  runs  cold 
with  mere  thought  of  the  horrors  which  went 
on  there  in  the  times  of  the  religious  wars. 
But  very  likely  because  of  an  honest  desire 
to  live  down  its  own  bad  record  —  which  I 
mention  here  rather  to  its  present  credit  than 
to  its  past  shame — it  now  seems  determined 
to  balance  matters  by  manifesting  toward 
passing  travellers  the  most  obliging  courtesy 
in  the  world.  Certainly,  we  poets  —  coming 
thither  famished,  and  going  thence  full  fed 
and  sleekly  satisfied — had  cause  that  day  to 
bless  its  name. 

As  we  came  galloping  around  a  curve  in 
the  river — I  cannot  insist  too  strongly  upon 
the  dashing  impetuosity  that  was  the  con- 
stant buoyant  undertone  of  our  voyage — 
this  Tournon  the  blessed  shot  up  before  us 
perked  out  upon  a  bold  little  hill  thrust  for- 
ward into  the  stream :  a  crowd  of  heavily- 
built  houses  rising  around  a  church  or  two 
and  a  personable  campanile,  with  here  and 
163 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  propence 

there  bits  of  crenellated  ramparts,  and  higher 
still  the  tough  remnant  of  a  castle  still  fit  to 
do  service  in  the  wars.  Indeed,  it  all  was  so 
good  in  colour — with  its  blendings  of  green 
and  grey  shot  with  warm  yellow  tones ;  and 
its  composition  was  so  excellent  —  with  its 
sweep  upward  from  the  river  to  the  castle 
battlements — that  to  my  American  fancy  (used 
rather  to  Mediaeval  semblances  than  to  Mediae- 
val realities)  it  seemed  to  be  temporarily  es- 
caped from  an  exceptionally  well-set  oper- 
atic stage. 

All  Tournon  was  down  at  the  water-side  to 
meet  us,  and  on  the  landing-stage  was  the 
very  Mayor :  a  lean  and  tri-coloured  man  who 
took  off  his  hat  comprehensively  to  our  whole 
company  in  a  magnificent  bow.  Notables 
were  with  him — the  Sous-Prefect,  the  Mayor 
of  Tain,  the  Adjoint,  leading  citizens — who 
also  bowed  to  us ;  but  not  with  a  bow  like  his ! 
Laurel  garlands  decorated  the  landing-stage; 
more  laurel  garlands  and  the  national  colours 
made  gay  the  roadway  leading  up  the  bank; 
and  over  the  roadway  was  a  laurel-wreathed 
and  tri-coloured  triumphal  arch — all  as  suit- 
able to  welcoming  poets  and  patriots,  such 
164 


J\  Tcast  Day  on  the  Rhone 

as  we  were,  as  suitable  could  be.  As  the 
Gladiateur  drew  in  to  the  bank  there  was  a 
noble  banging  of  boites — which  ancient  sub- 
stitute for  cannon  in  joy-firing  still  are  es- 
teemed warmly  in  rural  France — and  before 
the  Mayor  spoke  ever  a  word  to  us  the  band 
bounded  gallantly  into  the  thick  of  the  "  Mar- 
seillaise." 

With  the  botte  banging  fitfully,  with  the 
band  in  advance  playing  "La  Coupe,"  the 
tri-coloured  Mayor  led  off  with  the  most  dis- 
tinguished lady  of  our  company  upon  his 
arm:  and  away  we  all  went,  under  the  tri- 
umphal arch  and  up  the  garlanded  roadway 
two  by  two  —  as  though  Tournon  were  a 
Rhone-side  Ararat  and  we  were  the  animals 
coming  out  of  the  Ark.  Our  entry  was  a 
veritable  triumph;  and  we  endeavoured  (I 
think  successfully)  to  live  up  to  it:  walking 
stately  through  the  narrow  streets,  made  nar- 
rower by  the  close-packed  crowds  pressing 
to  see  so  rare  a  poetic  spectacle;  through  the 
cool  long  corridors  of  the  Lycee;  and  so  out 
upon  a  prettily  dignified  little  park — where, 
at  a  triad  of  tables  set  within  a  garlanded  en- 
closure beneath  century-old  plane-trees,  our 
165 


Cbc  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

breakfast  was  served  to  us  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  bangs  from  the  boite  and  musical  re- 
marks from  the  band.  And  all  Tournon, 
the  while,  stood  above  us  on  a  terrace  and 
sympathetically  looked  on. 

In  its  adaptation  to  the  needs  of  travelling 
poets  the  breakfast  was  a  master-stroke.  It 
was  simple,  substantial,  delicious;  and  in  its 
accompanying  prodigal  outpouring  of  red 
and  white  Hermitage,  Cornas,  and  Saint- 
Peray,  the  contrast  with  the  bottle-niggard- 
liness of  Serrieres  was  bravely  marked.  The 
Hermitage,  from  the  hill-sides  directly  across 
the  river  from  Tournon,  around  the  town  of 
Tain,  scarcely  lives  up  to  its  heroic  tradition 
just  now — the  phylloxera  having  destroyed 
the  old  vines,  planted  by  the  hermit  of  blessed 
memory,  and  the  new  vines  having  in  them 
still  the  intemperate  strength  of  youth.  Yet 
is  it  a  sound  rich  wine,  in  a  fair  way  to  catch 
up  again  with  its  ancient  fame. 

While  we  feasted,  the  boite  and  the  band 
took  turns  in  exploding  with  violence;  and 
when,  with  the  filet,  the  band  struck  up  "  La 
Coupe"  away  we  all  went  with  it  in  a  chorus 
that  did  not  die  out  entirely  until  well  along 
166 


4fc 


'■iM       '■  i>- 


r 


...m-  — 


THE    LANDING-PLACE    AT   TOURNON 


ft  Teast'Day  on  the  Rhone 

in  the  galantine.  The  toasts  came  in  with 
the  ices,  and  on  the  basis  of  the  regional 
champagne,  Saint-Peray — sweet,  but  of  good 
flavour — that  cracked  its  corks  out  with  the 
irregular  volleyings  of  a  line  of  skirmishers 
firing  in  a  fog.  The  tri-coloured  Mayor  on 
behalf  of  Tournon,  and  Paul  Arene  and  de- 
lightful Sextius  Michel  on  behalf  of  the  Feli- 
brige  and  the  Cigaliers,  and  M.  Maurice  Faure, 
the  Deputy,  on  behalf  of  the  Nation  at  large, 
exchanged  handsome  compliments  in  the  most 
pleasing  way;  and  the  toasts  which  they 
gave,  and  the  toasts  which  other  people  gave, 
were  emphasized  by  a  rhythmic  clapping  of 
hands  in  unison  by  the  entire  company — in 
accordance  with  the  custom  that  obtains  al- 
ways at  the  feasts  of  the  Felibres. 

But  that  was  no  time  nor  place  for  extend- 
ed speech-making.  All  in  a  whiff  our  feast 
ended;  and  in  another  whiff  we  were  up  and 
off — whisking  through  the  Lycee  corridors 
and  the  crowded  streets  and  under  the  tri- 
umphal arch  and  so  back  on  board  the  Gla- 
diatenr.  The  Mayor,  always  heroically  ablaze 
with  his  patriotic  scarf  of  office,  stood  on  the 
landing-stage  —  like  a  courteous  Noah  in 
167 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

morning  dress  seeing  the  animals  safely  up 
the  Ark  gang-plank — and  made  to  each  couple 
of  us  one  of  his  stately  bows ;  the  boite  fired  a 
final  salvo  of  one  round ;  the  band  saluted  us 
with  a  final  outburst  of  the  "Marseillaise"; 
everybody,  ashore  and  afloat,  cheered  —  and 
then  the  big  wheels  started,  the  current  caught 
us  and  wrenched  us  apart  from  all  that  friend- 
liness, and  away  we  dashed  down  stream. 


VII 


Long  before  we  came  abreast  of  it  by  the 
windings  of  the  river  we  saw  high  up 
against  the  sky-line,  a  clear  three  hundred 
feet  above  the  water,  all  that  is  left  of  the 
stronghold  of  Crussol  —  still  called  by  the 
Rhone  boatmen  "the  Horns  of  Crussol,"  al- 
though the  two  towers  no  longer  shoot  out 
horn-like  from  the  mountain-top  with  a  walled 
war-town  clinging  about  their  flanks.  One 
Geraud  Bartet,  a  cadet  of  the  great  house  of 
Crussol — of  which  the  representative  nowa- 
days is  the  Due  d'Uzes — built  this  eagle's  nest 
in  the  year  mo;  but  it  did  not  become  a  place 
168 


Jj  Yeast'Day  on  t»e  Rhone 

of  importance  until  more  than  four  hundred 
years  later,  in  the  time  of  the  religious  wars. 

On  the  issue  of  faiths  the  Crussols  divided. 
The  head  of  the  house  was  for  the  Pope  and 
the  King;  the  two  cadets  were  for  God  and 
the  Reform.  Then  it  was  that  the  castle  (ac- 
cording to  an  over-sanguine  chronicler  of 
the  period)  was  "transformed  into  an  un- 
conquerable stronghold";  and  thereafter — 
always  for  the  advancement  of  Christianity 
of  one  sort  or  another — a  liberal  amount  of 
killing  went  on  beneath  its  walls.  In  the 
end,  disregarding  the  fact  that  it  was  uncon- 
querable, the  castle  was  captured  by  the 
Baron  des  Adrets — who  happened  at  the  mo- 
ment to  be  on  the  Protestant  side — and  in  the 
interest  of  sound  doctrine  all  of  its  defenders 
were  put  to  the  sword.  Tradition  declares 
that  "the  streams  of  blood  filled  one  of  the 
cisterns,  in  which  this  terrible  Huguenot  had 
his  own  children  bathed  'in  order,'  as  he 
said,  'to  give  them  strength  and  force  and, 
above  all,  hatred  of  Catholicism. ' ;  And 
then  "the  castle  was  demolished  from  its 
lowest  to  its  highest  stone." 

This  final  statement  is  a  little  too  sweep- 
169 


ClK  €l>ristma$   Kalends  of   Provence 

ing,  yet  essentially  it  is  true.  All  that  now 
remains  of  Crussol  is  a  single  broken  tower, 
to  which  some  minor  ruins  cling;  and  a  little 
lower  are  the  ruins  of  the  town — whence  the 
encircling  ramparts  have  been  outcast  and 
lie  in  scattered  fragments  down  the  moun- 
tain-side to  the  border  of  the  Rhone. 

It  was  on  this  very  mountain — a  couple  of 
thousand  years  or  so  earlier  in  the  world's 
history — that  a  much  pleasanter  personage 
than  a  battling  baron  had  his  home :  a  good- 
natured  giant  of  easy  morals  who  was  the 
traditional  founder  of  Valence.  Being  desir- 
ous of  founding  a  town  somewhere,  and  will- 
ing— in  accordance  with  the  custom  of  his 
time — to  leave  the  selection  of  a  site  a  little 
to  chance,  he  hurled  a  javelin  from  his  moun- 
tain-top with  the  cry,  "Va  lance!":  and  so 
gave  Valence  its  name  and  its  beginning,  on 
the  eastern  bank  of  the  river  two  miles  away, 
at  the  spot  where  his  javelin  fell.  At  a  much 
later  period  the  Romans  adopted  and  en- 
larged the  giant's  foundation;  but  nearly 
every  trace  of  their  occupation  has  disap- 
peared. Indeed,  even  the  ramparts,  built 
only  a  few  hundred  years  ago  by  Francis  I., 
170 


B  Yeast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

have  utterly  vanished;  and  the  tendency  of 
the  town  has  been  so  decidedly  toward  pulling 
down  and  building  up  again  that  it  now  wears 
quite  a  modern  and  jauntily  youthful  air. 

Valence  was  our  next  stopping-place,  and 
we  had  a  world  of  work  to  do  there  during  the 
hour  or  so  that  we  remained  ashore.  Very 
properly  believing  that  we,  being  poets,  could 
dedicate  their  local  monuments  for  them  far 
better  than  they  could  do  such  work  for  them- 
selves, the  excellent  people  of  this  town  had 
accumulated  a  variety  of  monuments  in  ex- 
pectation of  our  coming;  and  all  of  these  it 
was  our  pleasant  duty  to  start  upon  their 
immortal  way. 

Our  reception  was  nothing  short  of  magnif- 
icent. On  the  suspension  bridge  which  here 
spans  the  river  half  the  town  was  assem- 
bled watching  for  us;  and  the  other  half  was 
packed  in  a  solid  mass  on  the  bank  above  the 
point  where  our  landing  was  made.  The 
landing-stage  was  a  glorious  blaze  of  tri- 
colour; and  there  the  Mayor,  also  gloriously 
tri-coloured,  stood  waiting  for  us  in  the  midst 
of  a  guard  of  honour  of  four  firemen  whose 
brazen  helmets  shone  resplendent  in  the  rays 
171 


CDe  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

of  the  scorching  sun.  A  little  in  the  back- 
ground was  the  inevitable  band;  that  broke 
with  a  crash,  at  the  moment  of  our  landing, 
into  the  inevitable  "Marseillaise."  And  then 
away  we  all  marched  for  half  a  mile,  up  a 
wide  and  dusty  and  desperately  hot  street, 
into  the  heart  of  the  town.  The  detachment 
of  welcoming  townsfolk  from  the  bank  closed 
in  around  us;  and  around  them,  presently, 
closed  in  the  detachment  of  welcoming  towns- 
folk from  the  bridge.  We  poets  (I  insist  upon 
being  known  by  the  company  I  was  keeping) 
were  deep  in  the  centre  of  the  press.  The 
heat  was  prodigious.  The  dust  was  stifling. 
But,  upheld  by  a  realizing  sense  of  the  im- 
portance and  honour  of  the  duties  confided 
to  us,  we  never  wavered  in  our  march. 

Our  first  halt  was  before  a  dignified  house 
on  which  was  a  flag-surrounded  tablet  read- 
ing :  "  Dans  cette  maison  est  ne  General  Cham- 
pionnet.  L'an  MDCCLXII."  M.  Faure  and 
Sextius  Michel  made  admirable  speeches. 
The  band  played  the  "Marseillaise."  We 
cheered  and  cheered.  But  what  in  the  world 
we  poets  had  to  do  with  this  military  person 
— who  served  under  the  lilies  at  the  siege  of 
172 


B  Teast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

Gibraltar  that  ended  so  badly  in  the  year 
1783,  and  who  did  a  great  deal  of  very  pretty 
fighting  later  under  the  tri-colour — I  am  sure 
I  do  not  know !  Then  on  we  went,  to  the  quick 
tap  of  the  drums,  the  Mayor  and  the  glitter- 
ing firemen  preceding  us,  to  the  laying  of  a 
corner-stone  that  really  was  in  our  line:  that 
of  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  dram- 
atist Emile  Augier.  Here,  naturally,  M. 
Jules  Claretie  came  to  the  fore.  In  the  par- 
lance of  the  Academy,  Augier  was  "  his  dead 
man";  and  not  often  does  it  happen  that  a 
finer,  a  more  discriminating,  eulogy  is  pro- 
nounced in  the  Academy  by  the  successor 
to  a  vacant  chair  than  was  pronounced  that 
hot  day  in  Valence  upon  Emile  Augier  by 
the  Director  of  the  Comedie  Francaise.  When 
it  was  ended,  there  was  added  to  the  contents 
of  the  leaden  casket  a  final  paper  bearing 
the  autographs  of  the  notables  of  our  com- 
pany ;  and  then  the  cap-stone,  swinging  from 
tackles,  was  lowered  away. 

We  had   the  same  ceremony  over  again, 
ten  minutes  later,  when  we  laid  the  corner- 
stone of  the  monument  to  the  Comte  de  Mon- 
talivet:    who    was   an   eminent   citizen   and 
173 


Che   Christina*   Kalends  of  Provence 

Mayor  of  Valence,  and  later  was  a  Minister 
under  the  first  Napoleon — whom  he  had  met 
at  Madame  Colombier's,  likely  enough,  in 
the  days  when  the  young  artillery  officer  was 
doing  fitful  garrison-duty  in  that  little  town. 
Again  it  seemed  to  me  that  we  poets  were  not 
necessarily  very  closely  associated  with  the 
matter  in  hand ;  but  we  cheered  at  the  proper 
places,  and  made  appropriate  and  well-turned 
speeches,  and  contributed  a  valuable  collec- 
tion of  autographs  to  the  lead  box  in  the  cor- 
ner-stone: and  did  it  all  with  the  easily  off- 
hand air  of  thorough  poets  of  the  world.  In 
the  matter  of  the  autographs  there  was  near 
to  being  a  catastrophe.  Everything  was  go- 
ing at  a  quick-step — our  time  being  so  short 
— and  in  the  hurr\r  of  it  all  the  lead  box 
was  closed  and  the  cap-stone  was  lowered 
down  upon  it  while  yet  the  autographs  re- 
mained outside !  It  was  by  the  merest  chance, 
I  fancy,  in  that  bustling  confusion,  that  the 
mistake  happened  to  be  noticed;  and  I  can- 
not but  think — the  autographs,  with  only  a 
few  exceptions,  being  quite  illegible — that  no 
great  harm  would  have  come  had  it  passed 
unobserved.  However,  the  omission  being 
174 


Jj  Teast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

discovered,  common  courtesy  to  the  autog- 
raphists  required  that  the  cap-stone  should 
be  raised  again  and  the  much-signed  paper 
put  where  it  belonged. 

Having  thus  made  what  I  believe  to  be  a 
dedicatory  record  by  dedicating  three  monu- 
ments, out  of  a  possible  four,  in  considerably 
less  than  an  hour,  we  were  cantered  away  to 
the  H6tel  de  Ville  to  be  refreshed  and  com- 
plimented with  a  "Vin  d'honneur."  That 
ceremony  came  off  in  the  council  chamber — 
a  large,  stately  room — and  was  impressive. 
M.  le  Maire  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  che- 
rubic face  made  broader  by  wing -like  little 
whiskers.  He  wore  a  white  cravat,  a  long 
frock-coat,  appositely  black  trousers,  and  a 
far-reaching  white  waistcoat  over  which  wan- 
dered tranquilly  his  official  tri-coloured  scarf. 
The  speech  which  he  addressed  to  us  was 
of  the  most  flattering.  He  told  us  plainly 
that  we  were  an  extraordinarily  distinguished 
company;  that  our  coming  to  Valence  was 
an  event  to  be  remembered  long  and  honour- 
ably in  the  history  of  the  town;  that  he,  per- 
sonally and  officially,  was  grateful  to  us;  and 
that,  personally  and  officially,  he  would  have 
175 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

the  pleasure  of  drinking  to  our  very  good 
health.  And  then  (most  appropriately  by 
the  brass  -  hel meted  firemen)  well  -  warmed 
champagne  was  served;  and  in  that  cordial 
beverage,  after  M.  Edouard  Lockroy  had  made 
answer  for  us,  we  pledged  each  other  with  an 
excellent  good  will. 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  we  "scamped"  our 
last  monument.  To  be  sure,  it  was  merely 
a  tablet  in  a  house-front  setting  forth  the 
fact  that  Emile  Augier  had  been  born  there; 
and  already  Augier  had  had  one  of  the  best 
speeches  of  the  day.  But  that  was  no  ex- 
cuse for  us.  Actually,  we  scarcely  waited 
to  see  the  veil  of  pink  paper  torn  away  by  a 
man  on  a  step-ladder  before  we  broke  for  the 
boat — and  not  a  speech  of  any  sort  was  made! 
Yet  they  bore  us  no  malice,  those  brave  Va- 
lencois.  All  the  way  down  to  the  river,  un- 
der the  blaze  of  the  sun,  they  crowded  close- 
ly around  us — with  a  well-meant  but  misap- 
plied friendliness — and  breathed  what  little 
air  was  stirring  thrice  over  before  it  had  a 
chance  to  get  to  our  lungs.  They  covered 
again  in  a  black  swarm  the  bank  and  the 
bridge  in  our  honour.  Their  band,  through 
176 


B  Teast-Bay  on  the  Rhone 

that  last  twenty  minutes,  blared  steadfastly 
the  "Marseillaise."  From  his  post  upon  the 
landing-stage  the  cherubic  Maj^or  beamed  to 
us  across  his  nobly  tri-coloured  stomach  a 
series  of  parting  smiles.  The  brass-helmeted 
firemen  surrounded  him — a  little  unsteadily, 
I  fancied — smiling  too.  And  as  we  slipped 
away  from  them  all,  into  the  rush  of  the  river, 
they  sent  after  us  volley  upon  volley  of  cheers. 
Our  breasts  thrilled  and  expanded — it  is  not 
always  that  we  poets  thus  are  mounted  upon 
high  horses  in  the  sight  of  all  the  world — 
and  we  cheered  back  to  those  discriminating 
and  warm-hearted  towns-folk  until  we  fairly 
were  under  way  down-stream.  To  the  very 
last  the  cherubic  Mayor,  his  hat  raised,  re- 
garded us  smilingly.  To  the  very  last — 
rivalling  the  golden  glory  of  the  helmet  of 
Mambrino — the  slightly-wavering  head-gear 
of  his  attendant  firemen  shot  after  us  golden 
gleams. 

VIII 

We  drew  away  into  calmer  latitudes  after 
leaving  that  whirlwind  of  a  town.     For  the 
177 


Che   Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

time  being,  our  duties  as  public  poets  were 
ended ;  and  there  was  a  sense  of  restful  com- 
fort in  knowing  that  for  the  moment  we 
were  rid  of  our  fame  and  celebrity,  and  were 
free — as  the  lightest  hearted  of  simple  trav- 
ellers— to  enjoy  the  beauties  of  the  river  as  it 
carried  us,  alwa37s  at  a  full  gallop,  downward 
toward  the  sea. 

In  that  tranquil  spirit  we  came,  presently, 
to  the  leaning  Tour  -  Maudite :  and  found 
farther  restfulness,  after  our  own  varied  and 
too-energetic  doings,  in  looking  upon  a  quiet 
ruin  that  had  remained  soberly  in  the  same 
place,  and  under  the  same  sedative  curse,  for 
more  than  three  hundred  years.  It  is  an 
architectural  curiosity,  this  Cursed  Tower — 
almost  as  far  out  from  the  perpendicular  as 
is  its  better-known  rival  of  Pisa;  but  more 
impressive  in  its  unnatural  crookedness  be- 
cause it  stands  upon  an  isolated  crag  which 
drops  below  it  sheer  to  the  river  in  a  vast 
precipice.  Anciently,  before  it  went  wrong 
and  its  curse  came  upon  it,  the  tower  was  the 
keep  of  the  Benedictine  nunnery  of  Soyons. 
Most  ungallantly,  in  the  year  1569,  the  Hu- 
guenots captured  the  Abbe5r  by  assault;  and 
178 


ft  ?ta$t-Day  on  the   Rhone 

thereupon  the  Abbess,  Louise  d'Amauze  (poor 
frightened  soul!)  hurriedly  embraced  the 
Reformed  religion  —  in  dread  lest,  without 
that  concession  to  the  prejudices  of  the  con- 
querors, still  worse  might  come.  Several  of 
her  nuns  followed  her  hastily  heterodox  ex- 
ample; but  the  mass  of  them  stood  stoutly  by 
their  faith,  and  ended  by  making  off  with  it 
intact  to  Valence.  I  admit  that  an  appearance 
of  improbability  is  cast  upon  this  tradition  by 
the  unhindered  departure  from  the  Abbey  of 
the  stiff-necked  nuns:  who  thus  manifested 
an  open  scorn  equally  of  the  victorious  Hu- 
guenots and  of  the  Reformed  faith.  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  there  are  the  ruins  of  the 
Abbey  to  prove  conclusively  that  it  truly  was 
conquered;  and  there,  slanting  with  a  con- 
spicuously unholy  slant  high  up  above  the 
ruins,  bearing  steadfast  witness  to  the  wrath 
of  heaven  against  that  heretical  Abbess  and 
her  heretical  followers,  is  the  Cursed  Tower! 
While  the  Abbess  of  Soyons,  being  still 
untried  by  the  stress  of  battle,  went  sinless 
upon  her  still  orthodox  way,  there  lived  just 
across  the  river  on  the  Manor  of  TEtoile  a 
sinner  of  a  gayer  sort — Diane  de  Poitiers. 
179 


€1k  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

The  Castle  of  the  Star  dates  from  the  fifteenth 
century;  when  Louis  XL  dwelt  there  as  Gov- 
ernor of  Dauphin}'  and  was  given  lessons  in 
how  to  be  a  king.  Diane  the  beautiful — 
"the  most  beautiful,"  as  Francis  I.  gallantly 
called  her  —  transformed  the  fortress  into  a 
bower,  and  gave  to  it  (or  accepted  for  it)  the 
appropriately  airy  name  of  the  Chateau  de 
Papillon.  There  she  lived  long  after  her 
butterfly  days  were  over;  and  in  a  way — 
although  the  Castle  of  the  Butterfly  is  a  silk- 
factory  now — she  lives  there  still :  just  as  an- 
other light  lady  beautiful,  Queen  Jeanne  of 
Naples,  lives  on  in  Provence.  To  this  day 
her  legend  is  vital  in  the  country-side;  and 
the  old  people  still  talk  about  her  as  though 
she  were  alive  among  them;  and  call  her  al- 
ways not  by  her  formal  title  of  the  Duchesse 
de  Valentinois,  but  by  her  love  title  of  "  la 
belle  dame  de  l'Etoile."  Of  this  joyous  per- 
son's family  there  is  found  a  ghastly  memento 
at  the  little  town  of  Lene — a  dozen  miles  down 
the  river,  beyond  the  great  iron-works  of  Le 
Pouzin.  It  is  the  Tour  de  la  Lepreuse :  where- 
in a  leper  lady  of  the  house  of  Poitiers  was 
shut  up  for  many  years  in  awful  solitude — 
180 


H  Tcast  Day  on  the  RD6ne 

until  at  last  God  in  his  goodness  permitted 
her  to  die.  I  suppose  that  this  story  would, 
have  pointed  something  of  a  moral — instead 
of  presenting  only  another  case  of  a  good 
moral  gone  wrong — had  Diane  herself  been 
that  prisoner  of  loathsome  death  in  life. 

But  aboard  the  Gladiateur  our  disposition 
was  to  take  the  world  easily  and  as  we  found 
it — since  we  found  it  so  well  disposed  toward 
us — and  not  to  bother  our  heads  a  bit  about 
how  moral  lessons  came  off.  With  cities 
effervescing  in  our  honour,  with  Mayors  at- 
tendant upon  us  hat  in  hand,  with  brazen- 
helmeted  firemen  playing  champagne  upon 
us  to  stimulate  our  poetic  fires,  with  boites 
and  bands  exploding  in  our  praise — and  all 
under  that  soul-expanding  sun  of  the  Midi — 
'tis  no  wonder  that  we  wore  our  own  bays 
jauntily  and  nodded  to  each  other  as  though 
to  say :  "  Ah,  you  see  now  what  it  is  to  be  a 
poet  in  these  latter  days!"  And  we  were 
graciously  pleased  to  accept  as  a  part  of  the 
tribute  that  all  the  world  just  then  was  ren- 
dering to  us  the  panorama  of  mountains  and 
towns  and  castles  that  continuously  opened 
before  us  for  the  delectation  of  our  souls. 
181 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

Oil  to  the  right,  hidden  behind  the  factory- 
smoke  of  La  Vonlte,  was  the  sometime  home 
of  Bernard  de  Ventadour,  a  troubadour  whom 
the  world  still  loves  to  honour — quite  one  of 
ourselves;  off  to  the  left,  commanding  the 
valley  of  the  Drome,  were  Livron  and  Loriol, 
tough  little  Huguenot  nuts  cracked  all  to 
pieces  (as  their  fallen  ramparts  showed)  in 
the  religious  wars;  and  a  little  lower  down 
we  came  to  Cruas :  a  famous  fortified  Abbey, 
surmounted  by  a  superb  donjon  and  set  in 
the  midst  of  a  triple  -  walled  town,  whereof 
the  Byzantine-Romanesque  church  is  one 
of  the  marvels  of  Southern  France.  Cruas 
was  founded  more  than  a  thousand  years 
ago,  in  the  time  of  Charlemagne,  by  the  pious 
Hermengarde,  wife  of  Count  Eribert  de  Vi- 
varais ;  being  a  thank  -  offering  to  heaven 
erected  on  the  very  spot  where  that  estimable 
woman  and  her  husband  were  set  upon  in 
the  forest  by  a  she-wolf  of  monstrous  size. 
But  the  fortified  Abbey  was  a  later  growth; 
and  was  not  completed,  probably,  until  the 
sixteenth  century.  It  was  toward  the  end 
of  that  century,  certainly,  that  the  Hugue- 
nots attacked  it — and  were  beaten  off  final- 
182 


B  ?ea$t-Day  on  toe  Rbone 

ly  by  Abbot  Etienne  Deodel  and  his  monks, 
who  clapped  on  armour  over  their  habits 
and  did  some  very  sprightly  fighting  on  its 
walls. 

Below  Cruas,  around  the  bend  in  the  river, 
Rochemaure  the  Black  came  into  sight:  a 
withered  stronghold  topping  an  isolated  rock 
of  black  basalt  six  hundred  feet  above  the 
stream.  It  is  a  grewsome  place:  the  ruin  of 
a  black  nightmare  of  a  basalt-built  castle, 
having  below  and  around  it  a  little  black 
nightmare  of  a  basalt  -  built  town  —  whereof 
the  desperately  steep  and  crooked  streets  are 
paved  with  black  basalt,  and  are  so  narrowed 
bj?  over-hanging  houses  as  to  show  above 
them  only  the  merest  strip  of  sky.  It  is  a 
town  to  which,  by  preference,  one  would  go 
to  commit  a  murder;  but  'tis  said  that  its  in- 
habitants are  kindly  disposed.  Only  a  step 
beyond  it  lies  Le  Teil :  a  briskly  busy  little 
place  tucked  in  at  the  foot  of  a  lime-stone 
cliff — town  and  cliff  and  the  inevitable  castle 
on  the  cliff-top  all  shrouded  in  a  murky  white 
cloud,  half  dust,  half  vapour,  rising  from 
the  great  buildings  in  which  a  famous  hy- 
draulic cement  is  made.  Not  a  desirable 
183 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

abiding  place,  seemingly;  but  in  cheerful 
contrast  with  its  lowering  neighbour  up  the 
stream. 

And  then,  passing  beyond  a  maze  of  islands 
— amidst  which  the  river  wandered  so  tortu- 
ously that  our  pilot  had  behind  hi  in  a  strong 
tiller-crew  in  order  to  carry  us  through  safely 
— we  came  to  the  noble  town  of  Viviers.  From 
afar  we  saw  its  tall  bell-tower,  its  beautiful 
cathedral,  its  episcopal  palace;  and  as  we 
drew  nearer  the  whole  environment  of  ancient 
houses  and  fortifications  spread  out  around 
those  governing  points  in  a  great  amphi- 
theatre. But  what  held  us  most  was  the 
gay  dash  of  tri-colour  on  its  bridge,  and  the 
crowd  there  evidently  waiting  for  our  com- 
ing to  manifest  toward  us  their  good  will. 
They  cheered  us  and  waved  their  hats  and 
handkerchiefs  at  us,  those  poet-lovers,  as  we 
neared  them;  and  as  we  passed  beneath  the 
bridge  a  huge  wreath  of  laurel  was  swung 
downward  to  our  deck,  and  a  shower  of  laurel 
branches  fluttered  down  upon  us  through 
the  sunlit  air.  In  all  the  fourteen  centuries 
since  Viviers  was  founded  I  am  confident  that 
nothing  more  gracious  than  this  tribute  to 
184 


T\  Tcast-Day  on  tl>e  Knonc 

passing  Poetry  is  recorded  in  the  history  of 
the  town. 

Naturally,  being  capable  of  such  an  act  of 
nicely  discriminating  courtesy,  Viviers  has 
sound  traditions  of  learning  and  of  gentle 
blood.  In  its  day  it  was  a  great  episcopal 
city :  whose  bishops  maintained  an  army, 
struck  money,  counted  princes  among  their 
vassals,  in  set  terms  defied  the  power  of  the 
King  of  France — and  recognized  not  the  ex- 
istence of  any  temporal  sovereign  until  the 
Third  Conrad  of  German}'-  enlarged  their 
knowledge  of  political  geography  by  taking 
their  city  by  storm.  Yet  while  finely  lording 
it  over  outsiders,  the  bishops  were  brought 
curiously  to  their  bearings  within  their  own 
walls.  Each  of  them,  in  turn,  on  his  way  to 
his  installation,  found  closed  against  him,  as 
he  descended  from  his  mule  before  it,  the  door 
of  the  cathedral ;  and  the  door  was  not  opened 
until  he  had  sworn  there  publicly  that  he 
would  maintain  inviolate  as  he  found  them 
the  rights  and  privileges  of  the  chapter  and 
of  the  town.  Moreover,  once  in  each  year 
the  men  and  women  of  rank  of  Viviers  as- 
serted their  right  to  a  part  enjoyment  of  the 
185 


Cbc  Christmas   Hounds  or  Provence 

ecclesiastical  benefices  by  putting  on  copes 
and  mitres  and  occupying  with  the  canons 
the  cathedral  stalls. 

The  line  of  one  hundred  and  thirty  bishops 
who  in  succession  reigned  here  ended  —  a 
century  back,  in  the  time  of  the  Revolution 
— in  a  veritable  lurid  flame;  yet  with,  I  think, 
a  touch  of  agonized  human  nature  too.  The 
church  historian  can  see  only  the  diabolical 
side  of  the  situation ;  and  in  a  horror-struck 
way  tells  how  that  last  Bishop,  "being  over- 
come by  the  devil,  abjured  the  episcopacy; 
with  his  own  hands  destroyed  the  insignia  of 
his  sacred  office;  and  thereafter  gave  him- 
self up  to  a  blasphemous  attack  upon  the 
holy  religion  of  which  he  had  been  for  a  long 
while  one  of  the  most  worthy  ministers." 

It  certainly  is  true  that  the  devil  had  things 
largely  his  own  way  about  that  time  here 
in  France;  but  it  does  not  necessarily  fol- 
low that  in  this  particular  matter  the  devil  di- 
rectly had  a  hand.  To  my  mind  a  simpler 
and  more  natural  explanation  presents  itself : 
That  the  iconoclastic  Bishop  was  a  weak 
brother  who  had  suffered  himself  to  be  forced 
into  a  calling  for  which  he  had  no  vocation, 
186 


n  Teast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

and  into  an  apparent  championship  of  a  faith 
with  which  his  inmost  convictions  were  at 
war;  that  for  years  and  years  the  struggle 
between  the  inward  man  and  the  outward 
Bishop  had  gone  on  unceasingly  and  hope- 
lessly, until — as  well  enough  might  happen 
to  one  strong  enough  to  resent  yet  not  strong 
enough  to  overcome  restraint — the  galling 
irksomeness  of  such  a  double  life  had  brought 
madness  near;  and  that  madness  did  actually 
come  when  the  chains  of  a  life  and  of  a  faith 
alike  intolerable  suddenly  were  fused  in  the 
fierce  heat  of  the  Revolution  and  fell  away. 


IX 


Below  Viviers  the  Rhone  breaks  out 
from  its  broad  upper  valley  into  its  broader 
lower  valley  through  the  Defile  of  Donzere. 
Here  the  foothills  of  the  Alps  and  the  foot- 
hills of  the  Cevennes  come  together,  and  be- 
hind this  natural  dam  there  must  have  been 
anciently  a  great  lake  which  extended  to  the 
northward  of  where  now  is  Valence.  The 
Defile  is  a  veritable  canon  that  would  be  quite 
187 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

in  place  in  the  Sierra  Madre.  On  each  side 
of  the  sharply-narrowed  river  the  walls  of 
rock  rise  sheer  to  a  height  of  two  hundred 
feet.  The  rush  of  the  water  is  tumultuous. 
In  mid-stream,  surrounded  b}^  eddies  and 
whirling  waves,  is  the  Roche-des-Anglais — 
against  which  the  boat  of  a  luckless  party  of 
English  travellers  struck  and  was  shattered 
a  hundred  years  ago.  Indeed,  so  dangerous 
was  this  passage  held  to  be  of  old — when 
faith  was  stronger  and  boats  were  weaker 
than  in  our  day  of  skepticism  and  compound- 
engines — that  it  was  customary  to  tie-up  at 
the  head  of  the  Defile  and  pray  for  grace  to 
come  through  it  safely;  and  sincerely  faith- 
ful travellers  tied-up  again  when  the  passage 
was  ended  to  offer  a  service  of  grateful  praise. 
But  nowadays  they  clap  five  men  on  the 
tiller  and  put  on  more  steam — and  the  prac- 
tical result  is  the  same. 

The  cliffs  bordering  the  canon,  being  of 
a  crumbling  nature,  are  known  as  the  Mara- 
niousques;  but  usually  are  called  by  the 
Rhone  boatmen  the  Monkey  Rocks — because 
of  the  monkeys  who  dwelt  in  them  in  legendary 
times  and  stoned  from  their  heights  the  pass- 


J\  Tcast  Day  on  tftc  Rhone 

ing  travellers.  It  was  a  long  while  ago  that 
the  monkeys  were  in  possession — in  the  time 
immediately  succeeding  the  Deluge.  During 
the  subsidence  of  the  waters  it  seems  that 
the  Ark  made  fast  there  for  the  night,  just 
before  laying  a  course  for  Ararat;  and  the 
monkey  and  his  wife — desperately  bored  by 
their  long  cooping-up  among  so  many  un- 
congenial animals — took  advantage  of  their 
opportunity  to  pry  a  couple  of  tiles  off  the 
roof  and  get  away.  The  tradition  hints  that 
Noah  had  been  drinking;  at  any  rate,  their 
absence  was  not  noticed,  and  the  Ark  went 
on  without  them  the  next  day.  By  the  time 
that  the  Deluge  fairly  was  ended,  and  the 
Rhone  reopened  to  normal  navigation,  a 
large  monkey  family  was  established  on  the 
Maraniousques ;  and  the  monkeys  thence- 
forward illogically  revenged  themselves  upon 
Noah's  descendants  by  stoning  everybody 
who  came  along. 

Later,  the  ill-tempered  monkeys  were  suc- 
ceeded by  more  ill  -  tempered  men.  In  the 
fighting  times  the  Defile  of  Donzere  was  a 
famous  place  in  which  to  bring  armies  to  a 
stand.  Fortifications  upon  the  cliffs  entirely 
189 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

commanded  the  river;  and  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  Defile  the  castle  and  the  walled  town  of 
Donzere,  capping  a  defiant  little  hill -top, 
commanded  both  the  river  and  the  plain. 
Even  the  most  fire-eating  of  captains  were 
apt  to  stop  and  think  a  little  before  venturing 
into  the  Defile  in  those  days. 

All  of  those  perils  are  ended  now.  The 
dangers  of  the  river  are  so  shorn  by  steam 
that  the  shooting  of  the  canon  rapids  yields 
only  a  pleasurable  excitement,  that  is  in- 
creased by  the  extraordinary  wild  beaut}'  of 
that  savage  bit  of  nature  in  the  midst  of  a 
long-tamed  land;  and  the  ramparts  and  the 
castle  of  Donzere,  having  become  invitingly 
picturesque  ruins,  are  as  placable  remnants 
of  belligerency  as  are  to  be  found  anywhere 
in  the  world.  Indeed,  as  we  saw  them — with 
the  afternoon  sunlight  slanting  down  in  a 
way  to  bring  out  delectably  the  warm  greys 
and  yellows  of  the  stone- work  and  to  pro- 
duce the  most  entrancing  effects  of  light-and- 
shade — it  was  not  easy  to  believe  that  people 
had  been  killing  each  other  all  over  them  not 
so  very  long  ago. 

Having  escaped  from  the  Defile  of  Donzere, 
190 


a 
o 

r 

H 

o 

•1) 

: 

2 

N 


B  feast-Day  on  the  Rhone 

the  river  wanders  away  restf ully  into  a  wilder- 
ness of  islands — a  maze  so  unexplored  and  so 
unexplorable  that  otters  still  make  their  home 
in  it,  and  through  the  thick  foliage  poke  out 
their  snub  noses  at  passing  boatmen  now  and 
then.  Thence  onward  for  a  long  way  islands 
are  plentiful  —  past  Pierrelatte,  and  Bourg- 
Saint  -  Andeol,  (a  very  ancient  and  highh'- 
Roman  flavoured  town),  and  the  confluence  of 
the  Rhone  and  the  Ardeche — to  the  still  larger 
archipelago  across  which  the  Bridge  Build- 
ing Brothers,  with  God  himself  helping  them, 
built  the  Pont-Saint-Esprit. 

Modern  engineers — possibly  exalting  their 
own  craft  at  the  expense  of  that  of  the  archi- 
tects— declare  that  this  bridge  was  the  great- 
est piece  of  structural  work  of  the  Middle 
Ages;  certainly  it  was  the  greatest  work  of 
the  Freres  Pontifes:  that  most  practical  of 
brotherhoods  which,  curiously  anticipating 
one  phase  of  modern  doctrine,  paid  less  atten- 
tion to  faith  than  to  works  and  gave  itself 
simply  to  ministering  to  the  material  wel- 
fare of  mankind.  In  the  making  of  it  they 
spent  near  half  a  century.  From  the  year 
1265  steadily  onward  until  the  year  1307  the 
191 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

Brothers  labored  :  and  then  the  bridge  was  fin- 
ished— a  half-mile  miracle  in  stone.  In  view 
of  the  extraordinary  difficulties  which  the 
engineer  in  charge  of  the  work  overcame — 
founding  piers  in  bad  holding-ground  and  in 
the  thick  of  that  tremendous  current,  with 
the  work  broken  off  short  by  the  frequent 
floods  and  during  the  long  season  of  high 
water  in  the  spring — it  is  not  surprising  that 
the  miracle  theory  was  adopted  to  explain 
his  eventual  victor}7.  Nor  is  it  surprising 
that  the  popular  conviction  presently  began 
to  sustain  itself  by  crystalizing  into  a  definite 
legend  —  based  upon  the  recorded  fact  that 
the  Brothers  worked  under  the  vocation  of 
the  Holy  Spirit — to  the  effect  that  the  Spirit 
of  God,  taking  human  form,  was  the  designer 
of  the  fabric  and  the  actual  director  under 
whose  guidance  the  work  went  on.  And 
so  the  genesis  of  the  bridge  was  accounted 
for  satisfactorily;  and  so  it  came  by  its  holy 
name. 

Personally,  I  like  miracles;  and  this  mir- 
acle is  all  the  more  patent,  I  think,  now  that 
the  bridge  has  been  in  commission  for  almost 
six  hundred  years  and  still  is  entirely  ser- 
192 


J\   T  c  a  $  t  Dav   on   ibc   Rhone 

viceable.  Yet  while  its  piers  and  arches,  its 
essential  parts,  remain  nearly  as  the  Brothers 
built  them,  the  bridge  has  undergone  such 
modifications  in  the  course  of  the  past  cen- 
tury— in  order  to  fit  it  to  the  needs  of  mod- 
ern traffic — that  its  picturesqueness  has  been 
destroyed.  The  chapel  of  St.  Nicholas  upon 
one  of  its  piers,  and  the  tower  at  its  centre, 
were  razed  about  the  end  of  the  last  century; 
a  little  later  the  fortified  approaches  were  re- 
moved; in  the  year  1854,  to  provide  for  the 
increasing  river  navigation,  the  first  two 
arches  from  the  right  bank  were  replaced  by 
a  single  iron  arch  of  two  hundred  feet  span 
over  the  main  channel;  and  in  the  year  i860 
the  entire  superstructure  on  the  north  side, 
with  a  part  of  the  superstructure  on  the  south 
side,  was  torn  down — and  in  place  of  the  old 
narrow  roadway,  with  turn  -  outs  on  each 
pier,  there  was  built  a  roadway  uniformly 
twenty-two  feet  wide.  In  a  sentimental  way, 
of  course,  these  radical  changes  are  to  be  re- 
gretted ;  but  I  am  sure  that  the  good  Brothers, 
could  they  have  been  consulted  in  the  premises, 
would  have  been  the  first  to  sanction  them. 
For  they  were  not  sentimentalists,  the  Broth- 
193 


Cbe  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

ers;  they  were  practical  to  the  last  degree. 
What  they  wanted  was  that  their  bridge,  liv- 
ing up  to  their  own  concept  of  duty,  should 
do  the  greatest  amount  of  good  to  the  greatest 
number  of  men. 

Almost  as  we  came  out  from  beneath  that 
monument  to  practical  Christianity,  we  saw 
over  on  the  left  bank  two  monuments  to  the 
theoretical  Christianity  of  three  hundred  years 
ago:  the  grisly  ruins  of  Mornas  and  Mont- 
dragon — each  on  a  hill  dark  green  with  a 
thick  growth  of  chene  vert,  and  each  having 
about  it  (not  wholly  because  of  its  dark  setting, 
I  fancied)  a  darkly  sinister  air.  In  truth,  the 
story  of  Mornas  is  sombre  enough  to  blacken 
not  merely  a  brace  of  hill-tops  but  a  whole 
neighbourhood.  In  the  early  summer  of  the 
year  1565,  a  day  or  two  before  the  Fete-Dieu, 
the  Papists  surprised  and  seized  the  town 
and  castle  and  put  the  entire  Huguenot  gar- 
rison to  the  sword.  Then,  as  now,  it  was  the 
custom  in  honour  of  the  F&te-Dieu  to  adorn 
the  house-fronts  with  garlands  and  draperies ; 
and  by  way  of  variant  upon  this  pretty  cus- 
tom "certain  of  the  conquerors,  more  fanati- 
cal than  the  rest,  flayed  the  dead  Huguenots 
194 


J\  Yeast-Day  on  the  Rbvtie 

and  draped  their  houses  bravely  with  Protes- 
tant skins. "  Thereupon  the  Baron  des  Adrets, 
the  Huguenot  commander  in  that  region, 
sent  one  of  his  lieutenants,  Dupuy-Montbrun, 
to  avenge  that  deviltry.  At  the  end  of  a  three- 
days'  siege  Mornas  was  conquered  again, 
and  then  came  the  vengeance:  "for  which 
the  castle  of  Mornas,  whereof  the  battlements 
overhung  a  precipice  falling  sheer  two  hun- 
dred feet  to  broken  rocks  below,  offered  great 
advantages."  In  a  grave  and  orderly  fash- 
ion, the  survivors  of  the  conquered  garrison 
were  assembled  in  the  castle  court-yard ;  were 
taken  in  orderly  squads  of  ten  up  to  the  bat- 
tlements; and  thence  were  thrust  over  into 
that  awful  depth.  And  so  the  account  was 
squared. 

It  is  instructive  to  note  that  des  Adrets, 
who  ordered  the  vengeance  on  Mornas,  a 
little  later  abjured  the  Reformed  religion  and 
became  a  Papist;  and  that  Dupuy-Mont- 
brun, who  carried  out  his  orders  and  who 
succeeded  him  upon  his  recantation  in  the 
command  of  the  Protestant  army,  but  a  little 
while  before  had  renounced  Papacy  to  become 
a  Huguenot.  So  the  leaders,  the  worst  of 
1 95 


Cbe  Christmas   Kalends  of  Proocnce 

them,  shifted  from  side  to  side  as  they  hap- 
pened to  be  swayed  by  pay  or  policy;  and  to 
such  creatures  of  no  real  faith  were  due  the 
direst  of  the  atrocities  of  those  hideous  times. 
But  the  Huguenots  of  the  rank  and  file  were 
of  another  sort.  Their  singleness  and  sin- 
cerity in  their  fight  for  their  faith  were  be- 
yond question.  They  died  for  it  willingly. 
Failing  the  happiness  of  death,  yet  being 
conquered,  they  still  held  fast  to  it.  In  the 
end,  rather  than  relinquish  it,  they  unhes- 
itatingly elected  —  at  a  stroke  giving  up 
country,  rank,  fortune  —  to  be  outcast  from 
France. 

For  me  the  history  of  those  desperate  wars 
has  a  very  vital  interest:  for  my  own  ances- 
tors took  the  share  in  them  that  was  becom- 
ing to  faithful  gentlemen  vowed  to  the  Re- 
form, and  I  owe  my  American  birthright  to 
the  honourable  fact  that  they  fought  on  the 
losing  side.  As  I  myself  am  endowed  with  a 
fair  allowance  of  stubbornness,  and  with  a 
strong  distaste  to  taking  my  opinions  at 
second  hand,  I  certainly  should  have  been 
with  my  kinsfolk  in  that  fight  had  I  lived  in 
their  day;  and  since  my  destiny  was  theirs 
196 


H  Tea$t«Day  on  the  Rhone 


to  determine  I  am  strongly  grateful  to  them 
for  having  shaped  it  so  well. 


But  I  was  glad  when  Mornas,  vivid  with 
such  bitter  memories,  dropped  out  of  sight 
astern.  Sleeping  dogs  of  so  evil  a  sort 
very  well  may  lie;  though  it  is  difficult  not  to 
waken  a  few  of  them  when  they  lie  so  thickly 
as  here  in  the  Rhone  Valley,  where  almost 
every  town  and  castle  has  a  chapter  of  night- 
mare horrors  all  its  own. 

Even  Chateauneuf  -  du  -  Pape  —  which  we 
saw  a  half  hour  later  off  to  the  eastward, 
rising  from  a  little  hill-top  and  thence  over- 
looking the  wide  vineyard-covered  valley — 
came  to  its  present  ruin  at  the  hands  of  des 
Adrets;  who,  having  captured  and  fired  it, 
left  standing  only  its  tall  square  tower  and 
some  fragments  of  its  walls.  This  was  an 
unfairly  lurid  ending  for  a  castle  which  actu- 
ally came  into  existence  for  gentle  purposes 
and  was  not  steeped  to  its  very  battlements 
in  crime;  for  Chateauneuf  was  built  purely 
197 


the  Christmas   Kalends  of   Provence 

as  a  pleasure-place,  to  which  the  Popes — 
when  weary  with  ruling  the  world  and  bored 
by  their  strait-laced  duties  as  Saint  Peter's 
earthly  representatives  —  might  come  from 
Avignon  with  a  few  choice  kindred  spirits 
and  refreshingly  kick  up  their  heels.  As 
even  in  Avignon,  in  those  days,  the  Popes 
and  cardinals  did  not  keep  their  heels  any  too 
fast  to  the  ground,  it  is  an  inferential  certainty 
that  the  kicking  up  at  Chateauneuf  must 
have  been  rather  prodigiously  high;  but  the 
people  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  too  stout  of 
stomach  to  be  easily  scandalized,  and  the 
Pope's  responsibilities  in  the  premises  were 
all  the  lighter  because  the  doctrine  of  his 
personal  infallibility  had  not  then  been  for- 
mulated officially.  And  so  things  went  along 
comf ortably  in  a  cheerfully  reprehensible  way. 
It  was  in  those  easy-going  days  that  the 
vineyards  were  planted,  on  the  slopes  below 
the  castle,  which  were  destined  to  make  the 
name  of  Chateauneuf  -  du  -  Pape  famous  the 
toping  world  over  long  after  the  New  Castle 
should  be  an  old  ruin  and  the  Avignon  Popes 
a  legend  of  the  past.  Only  within  the  present 
generation  did  those  precious  vines  perish, 
198 


THE    ROUMAXILLE    MONUMENT 


B  Tcast  Day  on  the  Rhone 

when  the  plrylloxera  began  among  them  its 
deadly  work  in  France;  and  even  yet  may  be 
found,  tucked  away  here  and   there  in   the 
favoured  cellars  of  Provence  and  Languedoc,  a 
few  dust-covered  bottles  of  their  rich  vintage : 
which  has  for  its  distinguishing  taste  a  sub- 
limated spiciness  due  to  the  alternate  dalli- 
ance of  the  bees  with  the  grape-blossoms  and 
with  the  blossoms  of  the  wild  thyme.     It  is  a 
wine  of  poets,  this  bee -kissed  Chateauneuf, 
and  its  noblest  association  is  not  with  the 
Popes  who  gave  their  name  to  it  but  with  the 
seven  poets — Mistral,  Roumanille,  Aubanel, 
Matthieu,    Brunet,     Giera,     Tavan  —  whose 
chosen  drink  it  was  in  those  glorious  days 
when  they  all  were  young  together  and  were 
founding  the  Felibrige:  the  society  that  was 
to  restore  the  golden  age  of  the  Troubadours 
and,    incidentally,    to    decentralize    France. 
One  of  the  sweetest  and  gentlest  of  the  seven, 
Anselme  Matthieu,   was   born  here  at  Cha- 
teauneuf; and  here,  with  a  tender  love-song 
upon  his  lips,  only  the  other  day  he  died. 
The  vineyards  have  been  replanted,  and  in 
the  fulness  of  time  may  corns  to  their  glory 
again;  but  the  greater  glories  of  Chateau- 
199 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

neuf  —  which  belonged  to  it  once  because 
of  its  Popes,  and  again  because  of  its  sweet- 
souled  Poet — must  be  only  memories  forever- 
more. 

The  castles  over  on  the  right  bank,  Mont- 
faucon  and  Roquemaure,  are  of  the  normal 
painful  sort  again.  Roquemaure  is  a  crooked, 
narrow,  up-and-down  old  dirty  town,  where 
old  customs  and  old  costumes  and  old  forms 
of  speech  still  live  on;  and,  also,  its  people 
have  a  very  pretty  taste  in  the  twisting  and 
perverting  of  historic  fact  into  picturesque 
tradition — as  is  shown  by  the  way  in  which 
they  have  rearranged  the  unpleasant  details 
of  the  death  of  Pope  Clement  V.  into  a  bit  of 
melodramatic  moral  decoration  for  their  own 
town.  Their  ingeniously  compiled  legend 
runs  in  this  wise:  Clement's  death  in  the 
castle  of  Roquemaure  occurred  while  he  was 
on  his  way  homeward  from  the  Council  of 
Vienne;  where — keeping  with  the  King  the 
bargain  which  had  won  for  him  the  Papal 
throne — he  had  abolished  the  Order  of  the 
Templars  and  had  condemned  their  Grand 
Master,  Jacques  de  Molay,  to  be  burned  alive. 
When  that  sentence  was  passed,  the  Grand 
200 


J\  Yeast'Day  on  the  Rftone 

Master,  in  turn,  had  passed  sentence  of  death 
upon  the  Pope:  declaring  that  within  forty 
days  they  should  appear  together,  in  the 
spirit,  to  try  again  that  cause  misjudged  on 
earth  before  the  Throne  of  God.  And  the 
forty  days  were  near  ended  when  Pope  Clem- 
ent came  to  Roquemaure — with  the  death- 
grip  already  so  strong  upon  him  that  even 
the  little  farther  journey  to  Avignon  was  im- 
possible, and  he  could  but  lay  him  down 
there  and  die.  While  yet  the  breath  scarce 
was  out  of  his  body,  his  servants  fell  to  fight- 
ing over  his  belongings  with  a  brutal  fierce- 
ness: in  the  midst  of  which  fray  a  lighted 
torch  fell  among  and  fired  the  hangings  of 
the  bed  whereon  lay  the  dead  Pope  —  and 
before  any  of  the  pillagers  would  give  the 
rest  an  advantage  by  stopping  in  their  foul 
work  to  extinguish  the  flames  his  body  was 
half-consumed.  And  so  was  Clement  burned 
in  death  even  as  the  Grand  Master  had 
been  burned  in  life ;  and  so  was  executed 
upon  him  the  Grand  Master's  summons 
to  appear  before  the  Judgment  Seat  on 
high! 

It  is  interesting  to  note  that  this  tradition 
201 


Cl)e  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

does  very  little  violence  to  the  individual 
facts  of  the  case,  and  yet  rearranges  them  in 
such  a  fashion  that  they  are  at  sixes  and 
sevens  with  the  truth  as  a  whole.  When,  in 
my  lighter  j7outh,  I  entered  upon  what  I  fan- 
cied was  antiquarian  research  I  was  hot  for 
the  alluring  theory  that  oral  tradition  is  a 
surer  preserver  of  historic  fact  than  is  written 
record ;  and  as  I  was  not  concerned  with  antiq- 
uities of  a  sort  upon  which  my  pretty  bor- 
rowed theory  could  be  tested  I  got  along  with 
it  very  well.  But  I  am  glad  now  to  cite  this 
capital  instance  in  controversion  of  my  youth- 
ful second-hand  belief  —  because  it  entirely 
accords  with  my  more  mature  conviction 
that  oral  tradition,  save  as  a  tenacious  pre- 
server of  place-names,  is  not  to  be  trusted  at 
all.  And  as  unsupported  written  record  rare- 
ly is  to  be  trusted  either,  it  would  seem 
that  a  certain  amount  of  reason  was  at 
the  root  of  King  David's  hasty  general- 
ization as  to  the  untruthfulness  of  man- 
kind. 

The  day  was  nearly  ended  as  we  passed 
that  town  with  a  stolen  moral  history :  and  so 
swept  onward,  in  and  out  among  the  islands, 
202 


B   feast-Day   on   the   Rhone 

toward  Avignon.  Already  the  sun  had  fallen 
below  the  crest  of  the  Cevennes;  leaving  be- 
hind him  in  the  sky  a  liquid  glory,  and  still 
sending  far  above  us  long  level  beams  which 
gilded  radiantly — far  off  to  the  eastward — 
the  heights  of  Mont-Ventour.  But  we,  deep 
in  the  deep  valley,  threaded  our  swift  way 
among  the  islands  in  a  soft  twilight  which 
gently  ebbed  to  night. 

And  then,  as  the  dusk  deepened  to  the 
westward,  there  came  slowly  into  the  eastern 
heavens  a  pale  lustre  that  grew  brighter  and 
yet  brighter  until,  all  in  a  moment,  up  over 
the  Alpilles  flashed  the  full  moon — and  there 
before  us,  almost  above  us,  the  Rocher-des- 
Doms  and  the  Pope's  Palace  and  the  ram- 
parts of  Avignon  stood  out  blackly  against 
the  moon-bright  sky.  So  sudden  was  this 
ending  to  our  journey  that  there  was  a  wonder 
among  us  that  the  end  had  come! 

All  the  Felibres  of  Avignon  were  at  the 
water-side  to  cheer  us  welcome  as  the  Glad- 
iateur,  with  reversed  engines,  hung  against 
the  current  above  the  bridge  of  Saint-B6nezet 
and  slowly  drew  in  to  the  bank.  Our  answer- 
203 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

ing  cheers  went  forth  to  them  through  the 
darkness,  and  a  stave  or  two  of  "La  Coupe" 
was  sung,  and  there  was  a  mighty  clapping 
of  hands.  And  then  the  gang-plank  was  set 
ashore,  and  instantly  beside  it  —  standing 
in  the  glare  of  a  great  lantern — we  saw  our 
Capoulie,  the  head  of  all  the  Felibrige,  F61ix 
Gras,  waiting  for  us,  his  subjects  and  his 
brethren,  with  outstretched  hands.  From 
him  came  also,  a  little  later,  our  official  wel- 
come :  when  we  all  were  assembled  for  a  ponch 
d'honneur  at  the  Hotel  du  Louvre  —  in  the 
great  vaulted  chamber  that  once  served  the 
Templars  as  a  refectory,  and  that  has  been 
the  banquet-hall  of  the  Felibrige  ever  since 
this  later  and  not  less  honorable  Order  was 
founded,  almost  forty  years  ago. 

Not  until  those  formalities  were  ended 
could  we  of  America  get  away  to  receive  the 
personal  welcome  to  which  through  all  that 
day  we  had  been  looking  forward  with  a 
warm  eagerness  —  yet  also  sorrowing :  be- 
cause we  knew  that  among  the  welcoming 
voices  there  would  be  a  silence,  and  that  a 
face  would  be  missing  from  among  those  we 
loved.  Roumanille  was  dead;  and  in  meet- 
204 


J\  Tca$t»Day  on  the  ^  bone 

ing  again  in  Avignon  those  who  had  been 
closest  and  dearest  to  him,  and  who  to  us 
were  close  and  dear,  there  was  heartache 
with  our  joy. 

Saint-remy-de-Provence, 

August,  1894. 


the    gomedie   francaise 
at   Orange 


the   gomedie   Trancaise 
at   Orange 


AFTER  a  lapse  of  nearly  fifteen  centuries, 
/i  the  Roman  theatre  at  Orange  —  founded 
in  the  time  of  Marcus  Aurelius  and  abandoned, 
two  hundred  years  later,  when  the  Northern 
barbarians  overran  the  land — seems  destined 
to  arise  reanimate  from  its  ruins  and  to  be  the 
scene  of  periodic  performances  by  the  Comedie 
Francaise:  the  first  dramatic  company  of 
Europe  playing  on  the  noblest  stage  in  the 
world.  During  the  past  five-and-twenty  years 
various  attempts  have  been  made  to  compass 
this  happy  end.  Now — as  the  result  of  the 
representations  of  "  (Edipus "  and  "  Antigone" 
at  Orange,  under  government  patronage  and 
by  the  leading  actors  of  the  National  Theatre 
— these  spasmodic  efforts  have  crystallized 
into  a  steadfast  endeavour  which  promises  to 
m  209 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

restore  and  to  repeople  that  long-abandoned 
stage.* 

If  they  know  about  it — over  there  in  the 
Shades — I  am  sure  that  no  one  rejoices  more 
sincerely  over  this  revival  than  do  the  Ro- 
mans by  whom  the  theatre  at  Orange  was 
built,  and  from  whom  it  has  come  down  to 
us  as  one  of  the  man}'  proofs  of  their  strong 
affection  for  that  portion  of  their  empire  which 
now  is  the  south-east  corner  of  France.  To 
them  this  region,  although  ultimately  in- 
cluded in  the  larger  Narbonensis,  always 
was  simply  Provincia — tJie  Province:  a  dis- 
tinguishing indistinction  which  exalted  it 
above  all  the  other  dependencies  of  Rome. 
Constantine,  indeed,  was  for  fixing  the  very 
seat  of  the  Empire  here;  and  he  did  build, 
and  for  a  time  live  in,  the  palace  at  Aries  of 
which  a  stately  fragment  still  remains.  Un- 
luckily for  the  world  of  later  periods,  he  was 

*  As  yet  (1902)  these  high  hopes  have  not  been  fully 
realized.  In  the  past  eight  years  dramatic  perform- 
ances repeatedly  have  been  given  in  the  Orange  thea- 
tre, and  always  with  a  brilliant  success ;  but  their 
establishment  as  fixtures,  to  come  off  at  regular  inter- 
vals, still  is  to  be  accomplished. 
210 


*    to  - 


the  eomedu  Yrattcaisc  at  Orange 

lured  away  from  the  banks  of  the  Rhone  by 
the  charms  of  the  Bosporus — and  so,  with- 
out knowing  it,  opened  the  Eastern  Question : 
that  ever  since  has  been  fought  over,  and 
that  still  demands  for  its  right  answering  at 
least  one  more  general  European  war. 

Thus  greatly  loving  their  Province,  the 
Romans  gladly  poured  out  their  treasure  in 
adding  to  its  natural  beauties  the  adorn- 
ments of  art.  Scattered  through  this  region 
— through  the  Provence  of  to-day,  and,  over 
on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhone,  through  Lan- 
guedoc — are  the  remnants  of  their  magnifi- 
cent creations :  the  Pont-du-Gard ;  the  arena, 
and  the  baths,  and  the  Tour-Magne,  and  the 
beautiful  Maison-Carree,  at  Nimes;  at  Aries 
the  arena,  the  palace  of  Constantine,  and 
the  wreck  of  the  once  exquisite  theatre;  the 
baths  at  Aix;  the  triumphal  arches  at  Orange 
and  Carpentras;  the  partly  ruined  but  more 
perfectly  graceful  arch,  and  the  charming 
monument,  here  at  Saint-Remy  —  all  these 
relics  of  Roman  splendour,  with  many  others 
which  J  have  not  named,  still  testify  to  Ro- 
man affection  for  this  enchanting  land. 

The  theatre  at  Orange — the  Arausio  of  Ro- 
211 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

man  times,  colonized  by  the  veterans  of  the 
Second  Legion — was  not  the  best  of  these 
many  noble  edifices.  Decidedly,  the  good 
fortune  that  has  preserved  so  large  a  part  of 
it  would  have  been  better  bestowed  upon  the 
far  more  beautiful,  because  more  purely 
Grecian,  theatre  at  Aries:  which  the  blessed 
Saint  Hilary  and  the  priest  Cyril  of  holy  mem- 
ory fell  afoul  of  in  the  fifth  century  and  de- 
stroyed because  of  its  inherent  idolatrous 
wickedness,  and  then  used  as  raw  material 
for  their  well-meant  but  injudicious  church- 
building.  But  the  Orange  theatre — having 
as  its  only  extant  rival  that  at  Pompeii — has 
the  distinction  of  being  the  most  nearly  per- 
fect Roman  theatre  surviving  until  our  day ; 
and,  setting  aside  comparisons  with  things 
nonexistent,  it  is  one  of  the  most  majestic 
structures  to  be  found  in  the  whole  of  France. 
Louis  XIV.,  who  styled  it  "the  most  mag- 
nificent wall  of  my  kingdom,"  placed  it  first 
of  all. 

The  unknown  architect  who  wrought  this 

great  work — traversing  the  Roman  custom  of 

erecting  a  complete  building  on  level  ground 

— followed  the  Grecian  custom  of  hollowing 

212 


Che  Comcdic  Trancaise  at  Orange 

out  a  hill-side  and  of  facing  the  open  cutting 
with  a  structure  of  masonry :  which  com- 
pleted the  tiers  of  seats  cut  in  the  living  rock; 
provided  in  its  main  body  the  postscenium, 
and  in  its  wings  the  dressing-rooms;  and, 
rising  in  front  to  a  level  with  the  colonnade 
which  crowned  and  surrounded  the  auditori- 
um, made  at  once  the  outer  facade  and  the 
rear  wall  of  the  stage.*  The  dominant  char- 
acteristic of  the  building — a  great  parallel- 
ogram jutting  out  from  the  hill-side  into  the 
very  heart  of  the  town — is  its  powerful  mass. 
The  enormous  facade,  built  of  great  blocks 
of  stone,  is  severely  simple :  a  stony  height — 
the  present  bareness  of  which  formerly  was 
a  little  relieved  by  the  vast  wooden  portico 
that  extended  along  the  entire  front — based 
upon  a  cornice  surmounting  open  Tuscan 
arches  and  broken  only  by  a  few  strong  lines. 
The  essential  principle  of  the  whole  is  stabil- 
ity. It  is  the  Roman  style  with  all  its 
good  qualities  exaggerated.     Elegance  is  re- 

*  The  dimensions  of  the  theatre  are:   width,  338 
feet ;  depth,  254  feet ;  height  of  facade  and  of  rear  wall 
of  stage,  120  feet ;  radius  of  auditorium,  182  feet. 
213 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

placed  by  a  heavy  grandeur ;  purity  by 
strength. 

The  auditorium  as  originally  constructed 
— save  for  the  graceful  colonnade  which  sur- 
mounted its  enclosing  wall,  and  for  the  or- 
namentation which  certainly  was  bestowed 
upon  the  rear  wall  of  the  stage  and  probably 
upon  the  facing-wall  of  the  first  tier  of  seats 
— was  as  severe  as  the  facade:  simply  bare 
tiers  of  stone  benches,  divided  into  three  dis- 
tinct stages,  rising  steplike  one  above  another 
in  a  great  semi-circle.  But  when  the  theatre 
was  filled  with  an  eager  multitude  its  bareness 
disappeared;  and  its  brilliant  lowest  division 
— where  sat  the  nobles  clad  in  purple-border- 
ed white  robes :  a  long  sweep  of  white  dashed 
with  strong  colour  —  fitly  brought  the  au- 
ditorium into  harmony  with  the  splendour  of 
the  permanent  setting  of  the  stage. 

It  was  there,  on  the  wall  rising  at  the  back 
of  the  stage  and  on  the  walls  rising  at  its 
sides,  that  decoration  mainly  was  bestowed; 
and  there  it  was  bestowed  lavishly.  Fol- 
lowing the  Grecian  tradition  (though  in  the 
Grecian  theatre  the  sides  of  the  stage  were 
open  gratings )  that  permanent  set  repre- 
214 


Che  Gomldie  Trancaisc  at  Orange 

sented  very  magnificently — being,  indeed, 
a  reality — a  royal  palace,  or,  on  occasion,  a 
temple:  a  facade  broken  by  richly  carved 
marble  cornices  supported  by  marble  col- 
umns and  pilasters ;  its  flat  surfaces  covered 
with  brilliantly  coloured  mosaics,  and  having 
above  its  five  portals*  arched  alcoves  in  which 
were  statues:  that  over  the  royal  portal,  the 
aula  regia,  being  a  great  statue  of  the  Em- 
peror or  of  a  god. 

Extending  across  the  whole  front  of  this 


*  The  conventions  of  the  Greek  theatre — and,  later, 
of  the  Roman  theatre — prescribed  that  through  the 
great  central  portal  kings  should  enter ;  through  the 
smaller  side  portals,  queens  or  princesses  (on  the  left) 
and  guests  (on  the  right) ;  from  the  portals  in  the  wings, 
natives  of  the  country  (on  the  left)  and  strangers  (on 
the  right).  The  conventional  entrances  from  the 
wings  arose  from  the  fact  that  the  spectators  in  the 
Dionysiac  theatre,  on  the  Acropolis,  saw  beyond  the 
stage  on  the  one  side  the  white  houses  of  Athens  and 
on  the  other  the  plains  of  Attica :  and  so  to  them  the 
actors  coming  from  the  Athenian  side  were  their  own 
people,  while  those  entering  from  the  side  toward 
Attica  were  strangers.  In  the  modern  French  theatre 
the  "  court  "  and  "  garden  "  entrances  still  preserve 
this  ancient  tradition. 

215 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

wall,  entirely  filling  the  space  between  the 
wings,  was  the  stage.  Ninety  feet  above  it, 
also  filling  the  space  between  the  wings,  was 
a  wooden  roof  (long  since  destroyed)  which 
ilared  upward  and  outward :  at  once  adding 
to  the  acoustic  properties  of  the  building  and 
protecting  the  stage  from  rain.  Still  farther 
to  strengthen  the  acoustic  effect,  two  curved 
walls  —  lateral  sounding  -  boards  —  projected 
from  the  rear  of  the  stage  and  partly  em- 
braced the  space  upon  which  the  action  of 
the  play  usually  wTent  on. 

I  shall  not  enter  into  the  vexed  question  of 
scenery.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  this  per- 
manent set,  in  regard  to  which  there  can  be 
no  dispute — a  palace,  that  also  would  serve 
as  a  temple — made  an  entirely  harmonious 
framework  for  most  of  the  plays  which  were 
presented  here.  Indeed,  a  more  fitting  or  a 
more  impressive  setting  could  not  have  been 
devised  for  the  majority  of  the  tragedies  of 
that  time:  which  were  filled  with  a  solemn 
grandeur,  and  which  had  for  their  chief  per- 
sonages priests  or  kings.  Above  all,  the  dig- 
nity of  this  magnificent  permanent  scene  was 
in  keeping  with  the  devotional  solemnity  of 
216 


tlu  Contedic  ?rancai$c  at  Orange 

the  early  theatre :  when  an  inaugural  sacrifice 
was  celebrated  upon  an  altar  standing  in 
front  of  the  stage,  and  when  the  play  itself 
was  in  the  nature  of  a  religious  rite. 


II 


Certainly  for  two  centuries,  possibly  for 
a  longer  period,  the  people  of  Arausio  main- 
tained and  enjoyed  their  theatre.  The  beau- 
tiful little  city  of  which  it  was  a  part  was 
altogether  charming :  abounding  in  comforts 
and  luxuries  and  rich  in  works  of  art.  From 
the  hill-top  where  now  stands  the  statue  of 
the  Virgin  was  to  be  seen  in  those  days  a  min- 
iature Rome.  Directly  at  the  base  of  the  hill 
was  the  theatre,  and  beyond  it  were  the  cir- 
cus and  the  baths;  to  the  left,  the  Coliseum; 
to  the  right,  the  Field  of  Mars;  in  front — 
just  within  the  enclosing  ramparts,  serving 
as  the  chief  entrance  to  the  town — the  noble 
triumphal  arch  that  remains  almost  perfect 
even  until  this  present  day.  Only  the  thea- 
tre and  the  arch  are  left  now ;  but  the  vanished 
elegance  of  it  all  is  testified  to  by  the  frag- 
217 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

ments  of  carved  walls  and  of  mosaic  pave- 
ments which  still  continue  to  be  unearthed 
from  time  to  time.  Surrounding  that  opulent 
little  city  were  farms  and  vineyards  and  olive- 
orchards  —  a  gentle  wilderness  interset  with 
garden-hidden  villas  whereto  the  citizens  re- 
tired to  take  their  ease;  and  more  widely 
about  it  was  the  broad  Rhone  Valley,  then  as 
now  a  rich  store-house  of  corn  and  wine  and 
oil. 

No  wonder  that  the  lean  barbarians  of  the 
North  came  down  in  hungry  hordes  and  seized 
upon  that  fatness  as  Roman  strength  decayed ; 
and  no  wonder,  being  barbarians,  that  the 
invaders  wrecked  much  of  the  beauty  which 
they  could  neither  use  nor  understand.  After 
the  second  German  invasion,  in  the  year  406 
of  our  era,  there  was  little  left  in  Gaul  of  Ro- 
man civilization ;  and  after  the  coming  of  the 
Visigoths,  four  years  later,  Roman  civiliza- 
tion was  at  an  end. 

Yet  during  that  period  of  disintegration 
the  theatre  was  not  injured  materially;  and 
it  actually  remained  almost  intact — although 
variously  misused  and  perverted  —  nearly 
down  to  our  own  dav.  The  Lords  of  Baux, 
'218 


the  Contedie  Trancaise  at  Orange 

in  the  twelfth  century,  made  the  building  the 
outguard  of  their  fortress  on  the  hill-top  in 
its  rear;  and  from  their  time  onward  little 
dwellings  were  erected  within  it — the  crea- 
tion of  which  nibbled  away  its  magnificent 
substance  to  be  used  in  the  making  of  pygmy 
walls.  But  the  actual  wholesale  destruc- 
tion of  the  interior  did  not  begin  until  the 
year  1622:  when  Prince  Maurice  of  Nassau 
and  Orange,  in  manner  most  unprincely, 
used  the  building  as  a  quarry  from  which  to 
draw  material  for  the  system  of  fortifications 
devised  for  his  little  capital  by  his  Dutch 
engineers.  And  this  piece  of  vandalism  was 
as  useless  as  it  was  iniquitous.  Only  half  a 
century  later — during  the  temporary  occu- 
pation of  Orange  by  the  French  —  Prince 
Maurice's  fortifications,  built  of  such  pre- 
cious material,  were  razed. 

In  later  times  quarrying  was  carried  on  in 
the  theatre  on  a  smaller  scale ;  but,  practically, 
all  that  this  most  outrageous  Prince  left 
standing  of  it  still  stands:  the  majestic  fa- 
cade, together  with  the  rooms  in  the  rear  of 
the  stage;  the  huge  wings,  which  look  like, 
and  have  done  duty  as,  the  towers  of  a  feu- 
219 


Cbc  Christmas    Kalends   of   Presence 

dal  fortress;  the  major  portion  of  the  side 
walls;  most  of  the  substructure,  and  even  a 
little  of  the  superstructure,  of  the  tiers  which 
completed  the  semi-circles  of  seats  hollowed 
out  of  the  hill-side;  and  above  these  the  broken 
and  weathered  remains  of  the  higher  tiers 
cut  in  the  living  rock.  But  the  colonnade 
which  crowned  the  enclosing  walls  of  the 
auditorium  is  gone,  and  many  of  the  upper 
courses  of  the  walls  with  it;  the  stage  is  gone; 
the  wall  at  the  rear  of  the  stage,  seamed  and 
scarred,  retains  only  a  few  fragments  of  the 
columns  and  pilasters  and  cornices  and  mo- 
saics which  once  made  it  beautiful ;  the  carv- 
ings and  sculptures  have  disappeared;  the 
royal  portal,  once  so  magnificent,  is  but  a 
jagged  gap  in  the  masonry;  the  niche  above 
it,  once  a  fit  resting  place  for  a  god's  image, 
is  shapeless  and  bare.  And  until  the  work 
of  restoration  began  the  whole  interior  was 
infested  with  mean  little  dwellings  which 
choked  it  like  offensive  weeds — while  rain 
and  frost  steadily  were  eating  into  the  un- 
protected masonry  and  hastening  the  gen- 
eral decay. 

220 


Che  Com  Id  it  Trancaiso  at  Orange 


III 


This  was  the  theatre's  evil  condition 
when,  happily,  the  architect  Auguste  Caris- 
tie,  vice-president  of  the  commission  charged 
with  the  conservation  of  historical  monu- 
ments, came  down  to  Orange  early  in  the 
nineteenth  century  —  and  immediately  was 
filled  with  an  enthusiastic  determination  that 
the  stately  building  should  be  purified  and 
restored.  The  theatre  became  with  him  a 
passion;  yet  a  steadfast  passion  which  con- 
tinued through  more  than  a  quarter  of  a 
century.  He  studied  it  practically  on  the 
ground  and  theoretically  in  the  cabinet;  and 
as  the  result  of  his  patient  researches  he  pro- 
duced his  great  monograph  upon  it  (published 
in  a  sumptuous  folio  at  the  charges  of  the 
French  Government)  which  won  for  him  a 
medal  of  the  first  class  at  the  Salon  of  1855. 
In  this  work  he  reestablished  the  building  sub- 
stantially as  the  Roman  architect  created  it; 
and  so  provided  the  plan  in  accordance  with 
which  the  present  architect  in  charge,  M. 
221 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

Formige — working  in  the  same  loving  and 
faithful  spirit — is  making  the  restoration  in 
stone.  Most  righteously,  as  a  principal  feat- 
ure of  the  ceremonies  of  August,  1894,  a 
bust  of  Auguste  Caristie  was  set  up  in  Orange 
close  by  the  theatre  which  owes  its  saving  and 
its  restoration  to  the  strong  purpose  of  his 
strong  heart. 

And  then  came  another  enthusiast — the}' 
are  useful  in  the  world,  these  enthusiasts 
—  who  took  up  the  work  at  the  point 
where  Caristie  had  laid  it  down.  This  was 
the  young  editor  of  the  Revue  Meridionale, 
Fernand  Michel — more  widely  known  by  his 
pseudonym  of  "Antony  Real."  By  a  lucky 
calamity — the  great  inundation  of  the  Rhone 
in  the  year  1840 — Michel  was  detained  for  a 
while  in  Orange :  and  so  was  enabled  to  give 
to  the  theatre  more  than  the  ordinary  tourist's 
passing  glance.  By  that  time,  the  interior  of 
the  building  had  been  cleared  and  its  noble 
proportions  fully  were  revealed;  and  as  the 
result  of  his  first  long  morning's  visit  he  be- 
came, as  Caristie  had  become  before  him, 
fairly  infatuated  with  it. 

For  my  part,  I  am  disposed  to  believe  that 
222 


ClK   Come'die   Trancaise  at   Orange 

a  bit  of  Roman  enchantment  still  lingers  in 
those  ancient  walls;  that  the  old  gods  who 
presided  over  their  creation — and  who  con- 
tinue to  live  on  very  comfortably,  though  a 
little  shyly  and  in  a  quiet  way,  here  in  the 
south  of  France — have  still  an  alluring  power 
over  those  of  us  who,  being  at  odds  with  ex- 
isting dispensations,  are  open  to  their  genial 
influences.  But  without  discussing  this  side 
issue,  it  is  enough  to  say  that  Michel — lightly 
taking  up  what  proved  to  be  the  resolute 
work  of  half  a  lifetime — then  and  there  vowed 
himself  to  the  task  of  restoring  and  reani- 
mating that  ruined  and  long-silent  stage. 

For  more  than  twenty  years  he  laboured 
without  arriving  at  any  tangible  result;  and 
the  third  decade  of  his  propaganda  almost 
was  ended  when  at  last,  in  August,  1869,  his 
dream  was  made  a  reality  and  the  spell 
of  silence  was  broken  by  the  presentation 
of  Mehul's  "Joseph"  at  Orange.  And  the 
crowning  of  his  happiness  came  when,  the 
opera  ended,  his  own  ode  composed  for  the 
occasion,  "Les  Triomphateurs  " — set  to  music 
by  Imbert — echoed  in  the  ancient  theatre, 
and  the  audience  of  more  than  seven  thou- 
223 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

sand  burst  into  enthusiastic  cheering  over 
the  victory  that  he  had  won.  Truly,  to  be 
the  hero  of  such  a  triumph  was  worth  the 
work  of  nine-and-twenty  years. 

Even  through  the  dismal  time  of  the  Ger- 
man war  no  time  was  lost.  M.  Michel  and  his 
enthusiastic  colabourers  —  prominent  among 
them  being  "  Antony  Real,  fils,"  upon  whom 
has  descended  worthily  his  father's  mantle 
— cared  for  the  material  preservation  of  the 
building;  and  succeeded  so  well  in  keeping 
alive  a  popular  interest  in  their  work  that 
they  were  able  to  arrange  for  yet  another 
dramatic  festival  at  Orange  in  August,  1874. 
Both  grand  and  light  opera  were  given.  On 
the  first  evening  "Norma"  was  sung;  on 
the  second,  "Le  Chalet"  and  "Gala tee." 
To  the  presentation  of  these  widely  differing 
works  attached  a  curious  importance,  in  that 
they  brought  into  strong  relief  an  interesting 
phase  of  the  theatre's  psychology :  its  absolute 
intolerance  of  small  things.  "Norma"  was 
received  with  a  genuine  furore;  the  two  pretty 
little  operas  practically  were  failures.  The 
audience,  profoundly  stirred  by  the  graver 
work,  seemed  to  understand  instinctively 
224 


Cbc  Comcdie   ?ran$ai$e  at  Orange 

that  so  majestic  a  setting  was  suited  only  to 
dramas  inspired  by  the  noblest  passions  and 
dealing  with  the  noblest  themes. 

During  the  ensuing  twelve  years  there 
was  no  dramatic  performance  in  the  theatre; 
but  in  this  interval  there  was  a  performance 
of  another  sort  (in  April,  1877)  which  in  its 
way  was  very  beautiful.  M.  Michel's  thrill- 
ing "Salute  to  Provence"  was  sung  by  a 
great  chorus  with  orchestral  accompaniment; 
and  sung,  in  accord  with  ancient  custom — 
wherein  was  the  peculiar  and  especial  charm 
of  it — at  the  decline  of  day.  The  singers 
sang  in  the  waning  sunlight,  which  empha- 
sized and  enlarged  the  grandeur  of  their  sur- 
roundings: and  then  all  ended,  as  the  music 
and  the  daylight  together  died  away. 


IV 


In  August,  1886,  a  venture  was  made  at 
Orange  the  like  of  which  rarely  has  been 
made  in  France  in  modern  times :  a  new  French 
play  demanding  positive  and  strong  recog- 
nition, the  magnificent  "Empereur  d'Arles," 
«s  225 


CDc  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

by  the  Avignon  poet  Alexis  Mouzin,  was  given 
its  first  presentation  in  the  Orange  theatre — 
in  the  provinces — instead  of  being  first  pro- 
duced on  the  Paris  stage.  In  direct  defiance 
of  the  modern  French  canons  of  centraliza- 
tion, the  great  audience  was  brought  together 
not  to  ratify  opinions  formulated  by  Parisian 
critics  but  to  express  its  own  opinion  at  first 
hand.  Silvain,  of  the  Comedie  Francaise, 
was  the  Maximien  ;  Madame  Caristie-Mar- 
tel,  of  the  Odeon  (a  grand-daughter  of  Caris- 
tie  the  architect  who  saved  the  theatre  from 
ruin),  was  the  Miner  vine.  The  support  was 
strong.  The  stately  tragedy  —  vividly  con- 
trasting the  tyranny  and  darkness  of  pagan 
Rome  with  the  spirit  of  light  and  freedom 
arising  in  Christian  Gaul  —  was  in  perfect 
keeping  with  its  stately  frame.  The  play 
went  on  in  a  whirl  of  enthusiastic  approval 
to  a  triumphant  end.  There  was  no  question 
of  ratifying  the  opinion  of  Parisian  critics : 
those  Southerners  formed  and  delivered  an 
opinion  of  their  own.  In  other  words,  the 
defiance  of  conventions  was  an  artistic  vic- 
tor}7, a  decentralizing  success. 

Then  it  was  that  the  Felibres — the  poets 
226 


the  gomfdie  Tran$afse  at  Orange 

of  Languedoc  and  of  Provence  who  for  forty 
years  have  been  combating  the  Parisian  at- 
tempt to  focus  in  Paris  the  whole  of  France — 
perceived  how  the  Orange  theatre  could  be 
made  to  advance  their  anti-centralizing  prin- 
ciples, and  so  took  a  hand  in  its  fortunes: 
with  the  avowed  intention  of  establishing 
outside  of  Paris  a  national  theatre  wherein 
should  be  given  in  summer  dramatic  festivals 
of  the  highest  class.  With  the  Felibres  to 
attempt  is  to  accomplish;  and  to  their  ef- 
forts was  due  the  presentation  at  Orange  in 
August,  1888,  of  the  "(Edipus"  of  Sophocles 
and  Rossini's  "Moses" — with  Mounet-Sully 
and  Boudouresque  in  the  respective  title-roles. 
The  members  of  the  two  Felibrien  societies  of 
Paris,  the  Felibrige  and  the  Cigaliers,  were 
present  in  force  at  the  performances — so  timed 
as  to  be  a  part  of  their  customary  biennial 
summer  festival  in  the  Midi  —  and  their 
command  of  the  Paris  newspapers  (whereof 
the  high  places  largely  are  filled  by  these 
brave  writers  of  the  South)  enabled  them 
to  make  all  Paris  and  all  France  ring  with 
their  account  of  the  beauty  of  the  Orange 
spectacle. 

227 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Propcncc 

Out  of  their  enthusiasm  came  practical  re- 
sults. A  national  interest  in  the  theatre  was 
aroused;  and  so  strong  an  interest  that  the 
deputy  from  the  Department  of  the  Drome 
— M.  Maurice  Faure,  a  man  of  letters  who 
finds  time  to  be  also  a  statesman — brought 
to  a  successful  issue  his  long-sustained  effort 
to  obtain  from  the  government  a  grant  of 
funds  to  be  used  not  merely  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  building,  but  toward  its  restora- 
tion. Thanks  to  his  strong  presentation  of 
the  case,  forty  thousand  francs  was  appro- 
priated for  the  beginning  of  the  work :  a  sum 
that  has  sufficed  to  pay  for  the  rebuilding 
of  twenty  of  the  tiers.  And  thus,  at  last, 
a  substantial  beginning  was  made  in  the  re- 
creation of  the  majestic  edifice;  and  more 
than  a  beginning  was  made  in  the  realization 
of  the  Felibrien  project  for  establishing  a 
national  theatre  in  provincial  France. 

The  festival  of  last  August — again  pro- 
moted by  the  Felibres,  and  mainly  organized 
by  M.  Jules  Claretie,  the  Director  of  the  Come- 
die  Francaise  —  was  held,  therefore,  in  cele- 
bration of  specific  achievement;  and  in  two 
other  important  particulars  it  differed  from 
228 


CDc  gomedie  Trancaise  at  Orange 

all  other  modern  festivals  at  Orange.  First,  it 
was  directly  under  government  patronage — 
M.  Leygues,  minister  of  public  instruction 
and  the  fine  arts,  bringing  two  other  cabinet 
ministers  with  him,  having  come  down  from 
Paris  expressly  to  preside  over  it;  and,  sec- 
ondly, its  brilliantly  successful  organization 
and  accomplishment  under  such  high  au- 
spices have  gone  far  toward  creating  a  posi- 
tive national  demand  for  a  realization  of  the 
Felibrien  dream:  that  the  theatre,  again  per- 
fect, shall  become  the  home  of  the  highest 
dramatic  art,  and  a  place  of  periodic  pilgrim- 
age, biennial  or  even  annual,  for  the  whole 
of  the  art-loving  world. 

I  am  disposed  to  regard  myself  as  more 
than  usually  fortunate  in  that  I  was  able  to 
be  a  part  of  that  most  brilliant  festival,  and  I 
am  deeply  grateful  to  my  Felibrien  breth- 
ren to  whom  I  owe  my  share  in  it.  With  an 
excellent  thoughtfulness  they  sent  me  early 
word  of  what  was  forward  among  them,  and 
so  enabled  me  to  get  from  New  York  to  Paris 
in  time  to  go  down  with  the  Felibres  and  the 
Cigaliers  by  train  to  Lyons,  and  thence — as 
blithe  a  boat-load  of  poets  as  ever  went  light- 
229 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

heartedly  afloat — on  southward   to   Avignon 
on  the  galloping  current  of  the  Rhdne. 


Avignon  was  crowded  with  dignitaries 
and  personages:  M.  Leygues,  who  was  to 
preside  over  the  festival;  the  ministers  of 
justice  and  of  public  works,  who  were  to  in- 
crease its  official  dignity ;  artistic  and  literary 
people  without  end.  Of  these  last — who  also, 
in  a  way,  were  first,  since  to  them  the  whole 
was  due — our  special  boat  from  Lyons  had 
brought  a  gay  contingent  three  hundred 
strong.  With  it  all,  the  City  of  the  Popes 
fairly  buzzed  like  a  hive  of  poetic  bees  got 
astray  from  Hymettus  Hill. 

From  Avignon  to  Orange  the  distance  is 
less  than  eighteen  miles,  not  at  all  too  far  for 
driving;  and  the  intervening  country  is  so 
rich  and  so  beautiful  as  to  conform  in  all  es- 
sentials— save  in  its  commendable  freedom 
from  serpents — to  the  biblical  description  of 
Paradise.  Therefore,  following  our  own  wish- 
es and  the  advice  of  several  poets  —  they 
230 


Cne  gomfdit  franchise  at  Orange 

all  are  poets  down  there — we  decided  to  drive 
to  the  play  rather  than  to  expose  ourselves  to 
the  rigours  of  the  local  railway  service:  the 
abject  collapse  of  which,  under  the  strain  of 
handling  twelve  or  fifteen  hundred  people, 
the  poets  truthfully  prophesied. 

It  was  five  in  the  afternoon  when  we  got 
away  from  Avignon.  A  mistral — the  north 
wind  that  is  the  winter  bane  and  summer 
blessing  of  Provence — was  blowing  briskly; 
the  sun  was  shining;  the  crowded  Cours  de 
la  Republique  was  gay  with  flags  and  ban- 
ners and  streamers,  and  with  festoons  of 
coloured  lanterns  which  later  would  be  festoons 
of  coloured  fire.  We  passed  between  the  tow- 
ers of  the  gateway,  left  the  ramparts  behind 
us,  and  went  onward  over  the  perfect  road. 
Plane-trees  arched  above  us;  on  each  side  of 
the  road  were  little  villas  deep-set  in  gardens 
and  bearing  upon  their  stone  gate-posts  the 
names  of  saints.  As  we  increased  our  dis- 
tance from  the  city  we  came  to  market-gar- 
dens, and  then  to  vineyards,  olive-orchards, 
farms.  Rows  of  bright-green  poplars  and  of 
dark-green  cypress — set  up  as  shields  against 
the  mistral  —  made  formal  lines  across  the 
231 


Che   Christmas    Kalends   of   Provence 

landscape  from  east  to  west.  The  hedges  on 
the  lee-side  of  the  road  were  white  with  dust 
— a  lace-like  effect,  curious  and  beautiful. 
Above  them,  and  between  the  trees,  we  caught 
glimpses  of  Mont  Ventour  —  alreadj7  begin- 
ning to  glow  like  a  great  opal  in  the  near- 
ly level  sun-rays.  Old  women  and  children 
stood  in  the  gateways  staring  wonderingly 
at  the  long  procession  of  vehicles,  of  which 
our  carriage  was  a  part,  all  obviously  filled 
with  pleasure-seekers  and  all  inexplicable. 
Pretty  girls,  without  stopping  to  wonder,  ac- 
cepted with  satisfaction  so  joyous  an  out- 
burst of  merrymaking  and  unhesitatingly 
gave  us  their  smiles. 

We  crossed  the  little  river  Ouveze,  and  as 
we  mounted  from  it  to  the  northward  the  tower 
of  the  ruined  Chateauneuf-du-Pape  came  into 
view.  A  new  key  was  struck  in  the  landscape. 
The  broad  white  road  ran  through  a  brown 
solitude:  a  level  upland  broken  into  fields  of 
sun-browned  stubble  and  of  grey-brown  olive- 
orchards;  and  then,  farther  on,  through  a 
high  desolate  plain  tufted  with  sage-brush, 
whence  we  had  outlook  to  wide  horizons  far 
away.  Off  to  the  eastward,  cutting  against 
232 


Che  Comldie  Trancaise  at  Orange 

the  darkening  sky,  was  the  curious  row  of 
sharp  peaks  called  the  Rat's  Teeth.  All  the 
range  of  the  Alpilles  was  taking  on  a  deeper 
grey.  Purple  undertones  were  beginning  to 
soften  the  opalescent  fire  of  Mont  Ventour. 

Presently  the  road  dipped  over  the  edge  of 
the  plain  and  began  a  descent,  in  a  perfectly 
straight  line  but  by  a  very  easy  grade,  of 
more  than  a  mile.  Here  were  rows  of  plane- 
trees  again,  which,  being  of  no  great  age  and 
not  meeting  over  the  road,  were  most  notice- 
able as  emphasizing  the  perspective.  And 
from  the  crest  of  this  acclivity — down  the 
long  dip  in  the  land,  at  the  end  of  the  loom  of 
grey-white  road  lying  shadowy  between  the 
perspective  lines  of  trees — we  saw  rising  in 
sombre  mass  against  the  purple  haze  of  sun- 
set, dominating  the  little  city  nestled  at  its 
base  and  even  dwarfing  the  mountain  at  its 
back,  the  huge  fabric  of  the  theatre. 

Dusk  had  fallen  as  we  drove  into  Orange 
—  thronged  with  men  and  beasts  like  a 
Noah's  ark.  All  the  streets  were  alive  with 
people;  and  streams  of  vehicles  of  all  sorts 
were  pouring  in  from  the  four  quarters  of  the 
compass  and  discharging  their  cargoes  on 
233 


Cne  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

the  public  squares  to  a  loud  buzzing  accom- 
paniment of  vigorous  talk — much  in  the  way 
that  the  ark  people,  thankful  to  get  ashore 
again,  must  have  come  buzzing  out  on  Ararat. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  the  handling  of  a 
small  part  of  this  crowd  by  the  railway  peo- 
ple, and  of  the  whole  of  it  by  the  local  man- 
agement, was  deplorably  bad.  The  trains 
were  inadequate  and  irregular;  the  great 
mistake  was  made  of  opening  only  three  of 
the  many  entrances  to  the  theatre;  and  the 
artistic  error  was  committed  (against  the  pro- 
test of  M.  Mounet-Sully,  who  earnestly  de- 
sired to  maintain  the  traditions  of  the  Greek 
theatre  by  reserving  the  orchestra  for  the 
evolutions  of  the  chorus)  of  filling  the  orches- 
tra with  chairs :  with  the  result  that  these  so- 
called  first-class  seats — being  all  on  the  same 
level,  and  that  level  four  feet  lower  than  the 
stage — were  at  once  the  highest-priced  and 
the  worst  seats  in  the  building.  Decidedly 
the  best  seats,  both  for  seeing  and  hearing, 
were  those  of  the  so-called  second  class — the 
newly  erected  tiers  of  stone.  But  so  ex- 
cellent are  the  acoustic  properties  of  the  thea- 
tre, even  now  when  the  stage  is  roofless,  that 
234 


Che   gomedic  franchise  at   Orange 

in  the  highest  tier  of  the  third-class  seats 
(temporary  wooden  benches  filling  the  space 
not  yet  rebuilt  in  stone  in  the  upper  third  of 
the  auditorium)  all  the  well-trained  and  well- 
managed  voices  could  be  clearly  heard. 

Naturally,  the  third-class  seats  were  the 
most  in  demand;  and  from  the  moment  that 
the  gates  were  opened  the  way  to  them  was 
thronged :  an  acute  ascent  —  partly  rough 
stairway,  partly  abrupt  incline  —  which  zig- 
zagged up  the  hill  between  the  wall  of  the 
theatre  and  the  wall  of  an  adjacent  house  and 
which  was  lighted,  just  below  its  sharpest 
turn,  by  a  single  lamp  pendant  from  an  out- 
jutting  gibbet  of  iron.  By  a  lucky  mischance, 
three  of  the  incompetent  officials  on  duty  at 
the  first-class  entrance  —  whereat,  in  default 
of  guiding  signs,  we  happened  first  to  apply 
ourselves — examined  in  turn  our  tickets  and 
assured  us  that  the  way  to  our  second-class 
places  was  up  that  stairway-path.  But  we 
heartily  forgave,  and  even  blessed,  the  stu- 
pidity of  those  officials,  because  it  put  us  in 
the  way  of  seeing  quite  the  most  picturesque 
bit  that  we  saw  that  night  outside  of  the  thea- 
tre's walls:  the  strong  current  of  eager  hu- 
235 


Che   Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

inanity,  all  vague  and  confused  and  sombre, 
pressing  upward  through  the  shadows,  show- 
ing for  a  single  moment — the  hurrying  mass 
resolved  into  individual  hurling  figures — 
as  it  passed  beneath  the  hanging  lamp,  and 
in  the  same  breath  swept  around  the  pro- 
jecting corner  and  lost  to  view.  It  looked,  at 
the  very  least,  treasons,  conspiracies,  and 
mutinous  outbursts  —  that  shadowy  multi- 
tude surging  up  that  narrow  and  steep  and 
desperately  crooked  dusky  footway.  I  felt 
that  just  around  the  lighted  turn,  wThere  the 
impetuous  forms  appeared  clearly  in  the 
moment  of  their  disappearance,  surely  must 
be  the  royal  palace  they  were  bent  upon  sack- 
ing; and  it  was  with  a  sigh  of  unsatisfied 
longing  that  I  turned  away  (when  we  got  at 
last  the  right  direction)  before  word  came  to 
me  that  over  the  swords  of  his  dying  guards- 
men they  had  pressed  in  and  slain  the  king! 
The  soldiers  on  guard  at  the  ascent,  and 
thickly  posted  on  the  hill-side  above  the  high- 
est tiers,  gave  colour  to  my  fancy.  And,  actu- 
ally, it  was  as  guards  against  assassins  that 
the  soldiers  were  there.  Only  a  little  more 
than  two  months  had  passed  since  the  slay- 
236 


IT    LOOKED   TREASONS,    CONSPIRACIES   AND    ML'II- 
NOI  S   oi  TBURSTS 


the  Comedie  Tran?ai$e  at  Orange 

ing  of  President  Carnot  at  Lyons;  and  the 
cautionary  measures  taken  to  assure  the 
safety  of  the  three  ministers  at  Orange  were  all 
the  more  rigid  because  one  of  them  was  the 
minister  of  justice — of  all  the  government 
functionaries  the  most  feared  and  hated  by 
anarchists,  because  he  is  most  intimately 
associated  with  those  too  rare  occasions 
when  anarchist  heads  are  sliced  off  in  poor 
payment  for  anarchist  crimes.  This  under- 
current of  real  tragedy — with  its  possibility 
of  a  crash,  followed  by  a  cloud  of  smoke  ris- 
ing slowty  above  the  wreck  of  the  gaily  dec- 
orated ministerial  box — drew  out  with  a  fine 
intensity  the  tragedy  of  the  stage :  and  brought 
into  a  curious  psychological  coalescence  the 
barbarisms  of  the  dawn  and  of  the  noontime 
of  our  human  world. 


VI 


We  came  again  to  the  front  of  the  theatre : 
to   an    entrance  —  approached   between   con- 
verging railings,   which  brought  the  crowd 
to  an  angry  focus,  and  so  passed  its  parts 
237 


Che   Christmas   Kalends   of   Provence 

singly  between  the  ticket-takers — leading  into 
what  once  was  the  postscenium,  and  thence 
across  where  once  was  the  "court"  side  of 
the  stage  to  the  tiers  of  stone  seats. 

However  aggravating  was  this  entrance- 
effect  in  the  matter  of  composition,  its  dramat- 
ically graded  light-and-shade  was  masterly. 
From  the  outer  obscurity,  shot  forward  as 
from  a  catapult  by  the  pushing  crowd, 
we  were  projected  through  a  narrow  portal 
into  a  dimly  lighted  passage  more  or  less 
obstructed  by  fallen  "blocks  of  stone;  and 
thence  onward,  suddenly,  into  the  vast  in- 
terior glaring  with  electric  lamps:  and  in  the 
abrupt  culmination  of  light  there  flashed  up 
before  us  the  whole  of  the  auditorium — a 
mountain-side  of  faces  rising  tier  on  tier;  a 
vibrant  throng  of  humanity  which  seemed  to 
go  on  and  on  forever  upward,  and  to  be  lost 
at  last  in  the  star-depths  of  the  clear  dark 
sky. 

Notwithstanding  the  electric  lamps — part- 
ly, indeed,  because  of  their  violently  contrast- 
ing streams  of  strong  light  and  fantastic 
shadow — the  general  effect  of  the  auditorium 
was  sombre.  The  dress  of  the  audience — 
238 


THE    GREAT    FACADE 


Cbc   gome'dic    yrancaisc  at   Orange 

cloaks  and  wraps  being  in  general  use  be- 
cause of  the  strong  mistral  that  was  blowing 
— in  the  main  was  dark.  The  few  light 
gowns  and  the  more  numerous  straw  hats 
stood  out  as  spots  of  light  and  only  empha- 
sized the  dullness  of  the  background.  The 
lines  of  faces,  following  the  long  curving 
sweep  of  the  tiers,  produced  something  of  the 
effect  of  a  grey-yellow  haze  floating  above 
the  surface  of  a  sable  mass;  and  in  certain 
of  the  strange  sharp  combinations  of  light 
and  shade  gave  an  eerie  suggestion  of  such  a 
bodiless  assemblage  as  might  have  come  to- 
gether in  the  time  of  the  Terror  at  midnight 
in  the  Place  du  Greve.  The  single  note  of 
strong  colour — all  the  more  effective  because 
it  was  a  very  trumpet-blast  above  the  drone 
of  bees — was  a  brilliant  splash  of  red  running 
half-way  around  the  mid-height:  the  crim- 
son draperies  in  front  of  the  three  tiers  set  apart 
for  the  ministerial  party  and  the  Felibres. 
And  for  a  roof  over  all  was  the  dark  star-set 
sky:  whence  the  Great  Bear  gazed  wonder- 
ingly  down  upon  us  with  his  golden  eyes. 
We  were  in  close  touch  with  the  higher  regions 
of  the  universe.  At  the  very  moment  when 
239 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  or  Provence 

the  play  was  beginning  there  gleamed  across 
the  upper  firmament,  and  thence  went  radi- 
antly downward  across  the  southern  reaches 
of  the  heavens,  a  shooting-star. 

Not  until  we  were  in  our  seats — at  the  side 
of  the  building,  a  dozen  tiers  above  the  ground 
— did  we  fairly  see  the  stage.  In  itself,  this 
was  almost  mean  in  its  simplicity:  a  bare 
wooden  platform,  a  trifle  over  four  feet  high 
and  about  forty  by  sixty  feet  square,  on  which, 
in  the  rear,  was  another  platform,  about 
twenty  feet  square,  reached  from  the  lower 
stage  by  five  steps.  The  upper  level,  the 
stage  proper,  was  for  the  actors;  the  lower, 
for  the  chorus — which  should  have  been  in 
the  orchestra.  The  whole  occupied  less  than 
a  quarter  of  the  space  primitively  given  to 
the  stage  proper  alone.  Of  ordinary  theatrical 
properties  there  absolutely  were  none — unless 
in  that  category  could  be  placed  the  plain 
curtain  which  hung  loosely  across  the  lower 
half  of  the  jagged  gap  in  the  masonry  where 
once  the  splendid  royal  portal  had  been. 

But  if  the  stage  were  mean  in  itself  it  was 
heroic  in  its  surroundings :  being  flanked  by 
the  two  castle-like  wings  abutting  upon  huge 
240 


CDe  CoMicdic  Trancaise  at  Orange 

half-ruined  archways,  and  having  in  its  rear 
the  scarred  and  broken  mighty  wall — that 
once  was  so  gloriously  magnificent  and  that 
now,  perhaps,  is  still  more  exalted  by  its 
tragic  grandeur  of  divine  decay.  And  yet 
another  touch  of  pathos,  in  which  also  was  a 
tender  beauty,  was  supplied  by  the  growth 
of  trees  and  shrubs  along  the  base  of  the 
great  wall.  Over  toward  the  "garden"  exit 
was  a  miniature  forest  of  figs  and  pomegran- 
ates, while  on  the  "court"  side  the  drooping 
branches  of  a  large  fig-tree  swept  the  very 
edge  of  the  stage  —  a  gracious  accessory 
which  was  improved  by  arranging  a  broad 
parterre  of  growing  flowers  and  tall  green 
plants  upon  the  stage  itself  so  as  to  make 
a  very  garden  there;  while,  quite  a  master- 
stroke, beneath  the  fig-tree's  wide-spreading 
branches  were  hidden  the  exquisitely  anach- 
ronistic musicians,  whose  dress  and  whose 
instruments  alike  were  at  odds  with  the 
theatre  and  with  the  play. 

Two  ill-advised  electric  lamps,  shaded  from 

the  audience,  were  set  at  the  outer  corners  of 

the  stage;   but  the  main   illumination   was 

from  a  row  of  screened  footlights  which  not 

16  241 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

only  made  the  whole  stage  brilliant  but  cast 
high  upward  on  the  wall  in  the  rear — above 
the  gaping  ruined  niche  where  once  had 
stood  the  statue  of  a  god — a  flood  of  strong 
yellow  light  that  was  reflected  strongly  from 
the  yellow  stone :  so  making  a  glowing  golden 
background,  whence  was  projected  into  the 
upper  darkness  of  the  night  a  golden  haze. 


VII 


With  a  nice  appreciation  of  poetic  effect, 
and  of  rising  to  strong  climax  from  an 
opening  note  struck  in  a  low  key,  the  per- 
formance began  by  the  appearance  in  that 
heroic  setting  of  a  single  figure :  Mademoiselle 
Breval,  in  flowing  white  draperies,  who  sang 
the  "Hymn  to  Pallas  Athene,"  by  Croze,  set 
to  music  by  Saint-Saens — the  composer  him- 
self, hidden  away  with  his  musicians  beneath 
the  branches  of  the  fig-tree,  directing  the  or- 
chestra. 

The  subduing  effect  produced  by  Made- 
moiselle Breval's  entrance  was  instantane- 
ous. But  a  moment  before,  the  audience 
242 


Che  eomcdie   Trancaisc  at  Orange 


had  been  noisily  demonstrative.  As  the 
ministerial  party  entered,  to  the  music  of  the 
"Marseillaise,"  everybody  had  roared;  there 
were  more  roars  when  the  music  changed  (as 
it  usually  does  change  in  France,  nowadajTs) 
to  the  Russian  Anthem;  there  were  shouts  of 
welcome  to  various  popular  personages — 
notably,  and  most  deservedly,  to  M.  Jules 
Claretie,  to  whom  the  success  of  the  festival 
so  largely  was  due;  from  the  tiers  where  the 
Parisians  were  seated  came  good-humored 
cries  (reviving  a  legend  of  the  Chat  Noir)  of 
"Vive  notre  oncle!"  as  the  excellent  Sarcey 
found  his  way  to  his  seat  among  the  Ciga- 
liers ;  and  when  the  poet  Frederic  Mistral  en- 
tered— tall,  stately,  magnificent — there  broke 
forth  a  storm  of  cheering  that  was  not  stilled 
until  the  minister  (rather  taken  aback,  I 
fancy,  by  so  warm  an  outburst  of  enthusi- 
asm) satisfied  the  subjects  of  this  uncrowned 
king  by  giving  him  a  place  of  honour  in  the 
ministerial  box. 

And  then,  suddenly,  the  shouting  ceased, 

the  confusion  was  quelled,  a  hush  fell  upon 

the  multitude,  as  that  single  figure  in  white 

swept  with  fluttering  draperies  across  from 

243 


Che   Christmas   Kalends   of  Provence 

the  rear  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  and  paused 
for  a  moment  before  she  began  her  invoca- 
tion to  the  Grecian  goddess :  whose  altar- 
fires  went  out  in  ancient  ages,  but  who  was  a 
living  and  a  glorious  reality  when  the  build- 
ing in  which  was  this  echo  of  her  worship 
came  new  from  the  hands  of  its  creators — 
seventeen  hundred  years  ago.  The  mistral, 
just  then  blowing  strongly  and  steadily, 
drew  down  upon  the  stage  and  swept  back  the 
singer's  Grecian  draperies  in  entrancing  folds. 
As  she  sang,  standing  in  the  golden  light 
against  the  golden  background,  her  supple 
body  was  swayed  forward  eagerly,  impetu- 
ously; above  her  head  were  raised  her  beau- 
tiful bare  arms;  from  her  shoulders  the  loose 
folds  of  her  mantle  floated  backward,  wing-like 
— and  before  us,  in  the  flesh,  as  in  the  flesh  it 
was  of  old  before  the  Grecian  sculptors,  was 
the  motive  of  those  nobly  impulsive,  urgent 
statues  of  which  the  immortal  type  is  the 
Winged  Victory. 

The  theory  has  been   advanced  that  the 
great  size  of  the  Greek  stage,  and  of  the  pal- 
ace in  its  rear  which  was  its  permanent  set  of 
scenery,  so  dwarfed  the  figures  of  the  actors 
244 


Che  Comc'djc  Trancaise  at  Orange 

that  buskins  and  padding  were  used  in  order 
to  make  the  persons  of  the  players  more  in 
keeping  with  their  surroundings.  With  sub- 
mission, I  hold  that  this  theory  is  arrant  non- 
sense. Even  on  stilts  ten  feet  high  the  act- 
ors still  would  have  been,  in  one  way,  out  of 
proportion  with  the  background.  If  used 
at  all  in  tragedy,  buskins  and  pads  probably 
were  used  to  make  the  heroic  characters  of 
the  drama  literally  greater  than  the  other 
characters. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  majestic  height  of  the 
scene  did  not  dwarf  the  human  figures  sus- 
taining serious  parts.  The  effect  was  pre- 
cisely the  contrary.  Mademoiselle  Breval, 
standing  solitary  in  that  great  open  space, 
with  the  play  of  golden  light  upon  her,  be- 
came also  heroic.  With  the  characters  in 
"CEdipus"  and  "Antigone"  the  result  was 
the  same:  the  sombre  grandeur  of  the  trag- 
edies was  enlarged  by  the  majesty  of  the 
background,  and  play  and  players  alike  were 
upraised  to  a  lofty  plane  of  solemn  stateliness 
by  the  stately  reality  of  those  noble  walls: 
which  themselves  were  tragedies,  because  of 
the  ruin  that  had  come  to  them  with  age. 
245 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  or  Provence 

Upon  the  comedy  that  so  injudiciously 
was  interpolated  into  the  program  the  effect 
of  the  heroic  environment  was  hopelessly 
belittling.  M.  Arene's  "  L'llote"  and  M.  Fer- 
rier's  "Revanche  d'Iris"  are  charming  of 
their  kind,  and  to  see  them  in  an  ordinary 
theatre — with  those  intimate  accessories  of 
house  life  which  such  sparkling  trifles  re- 
quire —  would  be  only  a  delight.  But  at 
Orange  their  sparkle  vanished,  and  they  were 
jarringly  out  of  place.  Even  the  perfect  ex- 
cellence of  the  players — and  no  Grecian  ac- 
tress, I  am  confident,  ever  surpassed  Made- 
moiselle Rachel-Boyer  in  exquisitely  finished 
handling  of  Grecian  draperies  —  could  not 
save  them.  Quite  as  distinctly  as  each  of 
the  tragedies  was  a  success,  the  little  com- 
edies were  failures :  being  overwhelmed  ut- 
terly by  their  stately  surroundings,  and  lost 
in  the  melancholy  bareness  of  that  great 
stage.  It  was  all  the  more,  therefore,  an  in- 
teresting study  in  the  psychology  of  the 
drama  to  perceive  how  the  comparatively 
few  actors  in  the  casts  of  the  tragedies — how 
even,  at  times,  only  one  or  two  figures — 
seemed  entirely  to  fill  the  stage;  and  how  at 
246 


Che  Come  die  Trancalse  at  Orange 

all  times  those  plays  and  their  setting  absolute- 
ly harmonized. 

VIII 

Of  scenery,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
word,  there  was  none  at  all.  What  we  saw 
was  the  real  thing.  In  the  opening  scene 
of  "(Edipus,"  the  King —  coming  forward 
through  the  royal  portal,  and  across  the 
raised  platform  in  the  rear  of  the  stage — 
did  literally  "enter  from  the  palace/'  and  did 
"descend  the  palace  steps''  to  the  "public 
place"  where  Creon  and  the  priests  awaited 
him.  It  was  a  direct  reversal  of  the  ordinary 
effect  in  the  ordinary  theatre :  where  the  play 
loses  in  realism  because  a  current  of  neces- 
sarily recognized,  but  purposely  ignored, 
antagonistic  fact  underruns  the  conventional 
illusion  and  compels  us  to  perceive  that  the 
palace  is  but  painted  canvas,  and  (even  on 
the  largest  stage)  is  only  four  or  five  times  as 
high  as  the  Prince.  The  palace  at  Orange — 
towering  up  as  though  it  would  touch  the 
very  heavens,  and  obviously  of  veritable 
stone — was  a  most  peremptory  reality. 
247 


Cbe   Christmas    Kalends  of  Provence 

7 

The  fortuitous  accessory  of  the  trees  grow- 
ing close  beside  the  stage  added  to  the  out- 
door effect  still  another  very  vivid  touch  of 
realism;  and  this  was  heightened  by  the 
swaying  of  the  branches,  and  by  the  gra- 
cious motion  of  the  draperies,  under  the  fitful 
pressure  of  the  strong  gusts  of  wind.  In- 
deed, the  mistral  took  a  very  telling  part  in 
the  performance.  Players  less  perfect  in  their 
art  would  have  been  disconcerted  by  it;  but 
these  of  the  Comedie  Francaise  were  quick 
to  perceive  and  to  utilize  its  artistic  possi- 
bilities. In  the  very  midst  of  the  solemn  de- 
nunciation of  (Edipus  by  Tiresias,  the  long 
white  beard  of  the  blind  prophet  suddenly 
was  blown  upward  so  that  his  face  was  hid- 
den and  his  utterance  choked  by  it;  and  the 
momentary  pause,  while  he  raised  his  hand 
slowly,  and  slowly  freed  his  face  from  this 
chance  covering,  made  a  dramatic  break  in 
his  discourse  and  added  to  it  a  naturalness 
which  vividly  intensified  its  solemn  import. 
In  like  manner  the  final  entry  of  (Edipus, 
coming  from  the  palace  after  blinding  him- 
self, was  made  thrillingly  real.  For  a  mo- 
ment, as  he  came  upon  the  stage,  the  hor- 
248 


SCENE   FROM    THE   SECOND    ACT    OF     "ANTIGONE" 


Cbc  Comcdie  francaise  at  Orange 

ror  which  he  had  wrought  upon  himself  —  his 
ghastly  eye-sockets,  his  blood-stained  face — 
was  visible;  and  then  a  gust  of  wind  lifted 
his  mantle  and  flung  it  about  his  head  so  that 
all  was  concealed;  and  an  exquisite  pity  for 
him  was  aroused — while  he  struggled  pain- 
fully to  rid  himself  of  the  encumbrance — by 
the  imposition  of  that  petty  annoyance  upon 
his  mortal  agony  of  body  and  of  soul. 

In  such  capital  instances  the  mistral  be- 
came an  essential  part  of  the  drama;  but  it 
was  present  upon  the  stage  continuously, 
and  its  constant  play  among  the  draperies 
— with  a  resulting  swaying  of  tender  lines 
into  a  series  of  enchanting  folds,  and  with  a 
quivering  of  robes  and  mantles  which  gave 
to  the  larger  motions  of  the  players  an  under- 
tone of  vibrant  action — cast  over  the  intrinsic 
harshness  of  the  tragedy  a  softening  veil  of 
grace. 

An  enlargement  of  the  same  soft  influences 
was  due  to  the  entrancing  effects  of  colour 
and  of  light.  Following  the  Grecian  tradi- 
tions, the  flowing  garments  of  the  chorus  were 
in  strong  yet  subdued  colour-notes  perfectly 
harmonized.  Contrasting  with  those  rich 
249 


Che  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 


tones,  the  white-robed  figures  of  the  leading 
characters  stood  out  with  a  brilliant  intensity. 
And  the  groups  had  always  a  golden  back- 
ground, and  over  them  always  the  golden  glow 
from  the  footlights  cast  a  warm  radiance  that 
again  was  strengthened  by  the  golden  reflec- 
tions from  the  wall  of  yellow  stone,  so  that 
the  whole  symphony  in  colour  had  for  its  un- 
der-note  a  mellow  splendour  of  golden  tones. 


IX 


In  this  perfect  poetic  setting  the  play 
went  on  with  a  stately  slowness  —  that  yet 
was  all  too  fast  for  the  onlookers  —  and 
with  the  perfection  of  finish  that  such  actors 
naturally  gave  to  their  work  amidst  sur- 
roundings by  which  they  were  at  once  stim- 
ulated and  inspired.  Even  the  practical  de- 
fects of  the  ruinous  theatre  were  turned  into 
poetical  advantages  which  made  the  tragic 
action  still  more  real.  The  woeful  entrance 
of  CEdipus  and  the  despairing  retreat  of  Jo- 
casta  were  rendered  the  more  impressive  by 
momentary  pauses  in  the  broken  doorway — 
250 


Cbe  gomedie  franchise  at  Orange 

that  emphasized  by  its  wreck  their  own 
wrecked  happiness;  in  "Antigone"  a  touch- 
ing beauty  was  given  to  the  entry  of  the  blind 
Tiresias  by  his  slow  approach  from  the  dis- 
tant side  of  the  theatre,  led  by  a  child  through 
the  maze  of  bushes  and  around  the  fallen 
fragments  of  stone;  and  Mademoiselle  Bartet 
(Antigone),  unable  to  pass  by  the  door  that 
should  have  been  but  was  not  open  for  her, 
made  a  still  finer  exit  by  descending  the  steps 
at  the  side  of  the  stage  and  disappearing 
among  the  trees. 

But  the  most  perfect  of  those  artistic  utiliza- 
tions of  chance  accessories — which  were  the 
more  effective  precisely  because  they  were 
accidental,  and  the  more  appreciated  because 
their  use  so  obviously  was  an  inspiration 
— was  the  final  exit  of  CEdipus  :  a  depart- 
ure "into  desert  regions"  that  Mounet-Sully 
was  able  to  make  very  literally  real. 

Over  in  the  corner  beside  the  "garden" 
exit,  as  I  have  said,  was  a  tangled  growth  of 
figs  and  pomegranates;  and  thence  extend- 
ing almost  to  the  stage  was  a  light  fringe  of 
bushes  growing  along  the  base  of  the  rear 
wall  among  the  fragments  of  fallen  stone. 
251 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of   Provence 

It  was  through  that  actual  wilderness  that 
(Edipus — crossing  half  the  width  of  the  the- 
atre— passed  from  the  brilliant  stage  into 
shadow  that  grew  deeper  as  he  advanced, 
and  at  last,  entering  the  gap  in  the  stone-work 
where  once  the  doorway  had  been,  disap- 
peared into  the  dark  depth  beyond. 

An  accident  of  the  moment — the  exhaustion 
of  the  carbons  of  the  electric  lamps — gave  to 
his  exit  a  still  keener  dramatic  intensity. 
The  footlights  alone  remained  burning :  flood- 
ing with  a  golden  splendour  the  stage  and  the 
great  yellow  wall,  and  from  the  wall  reflected 
upward  and  outward  upon  the  auditorium; 
casting  over  the  faces  in  the  orchestra  a  soft 
golden  twilight,  and  a  still  fainter  golden 
light  over  the  more  remote  hill-side  of  faces  on 
the  tiers  —  which  rose  through  the  golden 
dusk,  and  vanished  at  last  in  a  darkness  that 
still  seemed  to  be  a  little  softened  by  the  faint 
suggestion  of  a  golden  haze. 

Interest  and  light  thus  together  were  fo- 
cused upon  the  climax  of  the  tragedy.  Leav- 
ing the  light,  and  with  it  love  and  hope  and 
life,  behind  him,  (Edipus  descended  the  steps 
of  the  palace,  leaning  upon  the  shoulder  of 
252 


CIk   Comodic   franchise   at   Orange 

a  slave,  and  moved  toward  the  thickening 
shadows.  Watching  after  him  with  a  pro- 
foundly sorrowful  intensity  was  the  group 
upon  the  stage:  a  gorgeous  mass  of  warm 
colour,  broken  by  dashes  of  gleaming  white 
and  bathed  in  a  golden  glow.  Slowly,  pain- 
fully, along  that  rough  and  troublous  way, 
into  an  ever-deepening  obscurity  merging 
into  darkness  irrevocable,  the  blinded  king 
went  onward  toward  the  outer  wilderness 
where  would  be  spent  the  dreary  remnant  of 
his  broken  da}Ts.  Feeling  his  way  through 
the  tangled  bushes;  stumbling,  almost  fall- 
ing, over  the  blocks  of  stone;  at  times  halt- 
ing, and  in  his  desperate  sorrow  raising  his 
hands  imploringly  toward  the  gods  whose 
foreordered  curse  had  fallen  upon  him  be- 
cause of  his  foreordered  sin,  he  went  on  and 
on:  while  upon  the  great  auditorium  there 
rested  an  ardent  silence  which  seemed  even  to 
still  the  beatings  of  the  eight  thousand  hearts. 
And  when,  passing  into  the  black  depths  of 
the  broken  archwa}T,  the  last  faint  gleam  of 
his  white  drapery  vanished,  and  the  strain  re- 
laxed which  had  held  the  audience  still  and 
silent,  there  came  first  from  all  those  eager 
253 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

breasts  —  before  the  roar  of  applause  which 
rose  and  fell,  and  rose  again,  and  seemed  for 
a  while  to  be  quite  inextinguishable — a  deep- 
drawn  sigh. 


"Antigone,"  played  on  the  second  even- 
ing— being  a  gentler  tragedy  than  "CEdipus," 
and  conceived  in  a  spirit  more  in  touch 
with  our  modern  times — was  received  with 
a  warmer  enthusiasm.  No  doubt  to  the 
Greeks,  to  whom  its  religious  motive  was 
a  living  reality,  "CEdipus"  was  purely  awe- 
inspiring;  but  to  us,  for  whom  the  religious 
element  practically  has  no  existence,  the  in- 
trinsic qualities  of  the  plot  are  so  repellent 
that  the  play  is  less  awe-inspiring  than  horri- 
ble. And  even  in  Grecian  times,  I  fancy — 
human  nature  being  the  same  then  as  now  in 
its  substrata — "Antigone,"  with  its  conflict 
between  mortals,  must  have  appealed  more 
searchingly  to  human  hearts  than  ever  "  CEdi- 
pus" could  have  appealed  with  its  conflict 
between  a  mortal  and  the  gods.  Naturally, 
we  are  in  closer  sympathy  with  the  righteous 
254 


the  Comcdk  franchise  at  Orange 

defiance  of  a  man  by  a  woman — both  before 
our  eyes,  passionately  flaming  with  strong 
antagonistic  emotions — than  we  are  with  a 
man's  unrighteous  defiance  of  abstract  and 
invisible  Fate. 

As  "Antigone"  was  given  at  Orange,  the 
softening  influences  which  had  subdued  the 
harshness  of  ''(Edipus"  still  farther  were  ex- 
tended, making  its  deep  tenderness  still  deeper 
and  more  appealing.  The  inspersion  of  mu- 
sic of  a  curiously  penetrating,  moving  sort — 
composed  by  Saint-Saens  in  an  approxima- 
tion to  Grecian  measures — added  a  poetic 
undertone  to  the  poetry  of  the  situations  and 
of  the  lines ;  and  a  greater  intensity  was  given 
to  the  crises  of  the  play — an  artistic  reproduc- 
tion of  the  effect  caused  by  the  accident  of 
the  night  before — by  extinguishing  the  elec- 
tric lamps  and  so  bringing  the  action  to  a 
focus  in  the  mellow  radiance  which  came 
from  the  golden  footlights  and  richly  light- 
ed the  stage. 

The  poetic  key-note  was  struck  in  the  open- 
ing scene :  when  Antigone  and  Ismene,  robed 
all  in  white,  entered  together  by  the  royal 
doorway  and  stood  upon  the  upper  plane  of 
255 


Che   Christmas   Kalends  of  Provence 

the  great  stage,  alone  —  and  yet  so  filled  it 
that  there  was  no  sense  of  emptiness  nor  of 
lack  of  the  ordinary  scenery.  Again,  the 
setting  was  not  an  imitation,  but  the  real 
thing.  The  palace  from  which  the  sisters 
had  come  forth  rose  stately  behind  them. 
Beside  the  stage,  the  branches  of  the  fig-tree 
waved  lightly  in  the  breeze.  In  the  golden 
glow  of  the  footlights  and  against  the  golden 
background  the  two  white -robed  figures — 
their  loose  vestments,  swayed  by  the  wind, 
falling  each  moment  into  fresh  lines  of  loveli- 
ness— moved  with  an  exquisite  grace.  And 
all  this  visible  beauty  reinforced  with  a  mov- 
ing fervour  the  penetrating  beauty  of  Antig- 
one's avowal  of  her  love  for  her  dead  brother 
— tender,  human,  natural  —  and  of  her  pur- 
pose, born  of  that  love,  so  resolute  that  to 
accomplish  it  she  would  give  her  life. 

Again,  the  utter  absence  of  conventional 
scenery  was  a  benefit  rather  than  a  disadvan- 
tage. When  Creon  entered  upon  the  upper 
plane,  attended  by  his  gorgeous  guard,  and 
at  the  same  moment  the  entrance  of  the  chorus 
filled  the  lower  plane  with  colour  less  brilliant 
but  not  less  strong,  the  stage  was  full,  not  of 
256 


Cftc  gomldie  Tran^aisc  at  Orange 

things,  but  of  people,  and  was  wholly  alive. 
The  eye  was  not  distracted  by  painted  scenery 
— in  the  ordinary  theatre  a  mechanical  neces- 
sity, and  partly  excusable  because  it  also  sup- 
plies warmth  and  richness  of  tone — but  was  en- 
tirely at  the  service  of  the  mind  in  following  the 
dramatic  action  of  the  play.  The  setting  being 
a  reality,  there  was  no  need  for  mechanism 
to  conceal  a  seamy  side;  and  the  colour- 
effects  were  produced  by  the  actors  them- 
selves :  whose  draperies  made  a  superb  colour- 
scheme  of  strong  hues  perfectly  harmonized, 
of  gleaming  white,  of  glittering  golden  em- 
broideries— which  constantly  was  rearranged 
by  the  shifting  of  the  groups  and  single  fig- 
ures into  fresh  combinations;  to  which  every 
puff  of  wind  and  every  gesture  gave  fresh 
effects  of  light  and  shade;  and  over  which 
the  golden  light  shed  always  its  warm  radi- 
ance. 

Of  all  those  beautiful  groupings,  the  one 
which  most  completely  fulfilled  the  several 
requirements  of  a  picture  —  subject,  compo- 
sition, colour,  light  -  and  -  shade — was  that  of 
the  fourth  episode :  the  white-robed  Antig- 
one alone  upon  the  upper  plane,  an  animate 
'7  257 


the  Christmas  Kalends  of  Presence 

statue,  a  veritable  Galatea;  the  chorus,  a 
broad  sweep  of  warm  colour,  on  the  lower 
plane;  the  electric  lights  turned  off,  leaving 
the  auditorium  in  semi-obscurity,  and  concen- 
trating light  and  thought  upon  the  golden 
beauty  of  the  stage.  With  the  entry  of  Creon 
and  his  guards  both  the  dramatic  and  the 
picturesque  demands  of  the  situation  were 
entirely  satisfied.  In  the  foreground,  a  mass 
of  strong  subdued  colour,  were  the  minor 
figures  of  the  chorus;  in  the  background,  a 
mass  of  strong  brilliant  color,  were  the  minor 
figures  of  the  guards;  between  those  groups 
— the  subject  proper — were  Creon  and  Antig- 
one :  their  white  robes,  flashing  with  their 
eager  gestures  and  in  vivid  relief  against  the 
rich  background,  making  them  at  once  the 
centre  and  the  culmination  of  the  magnif- 
icent composition.  And  the  beauty  and  force 
of  such  a  setting  deepened  the  pathos  and  in- 
tensified the  cruelty  of  the  alternately  sup- 
plicating and  ferocious  lines. 

There  was,  I  regret  to  say,  an  absurd  anti- 
climax to  that  noble  scene.  Antigone,  being 
recalled  and  made  the  centre  of  a  volley  of 
bouquets,  ceased  to  be  Antigone  and  became 


CN  gomfdic  franchise  at  Orange 

only  Mademoiselle  Bartet;  and  the  Greek 
chorus,  breaking  ranks  and  scampering  about 
the  stage  in  order  to  pick  up  the  leading  lady's 
flowers,  ceased  to  be  anything  serious  and 
became  only  ridiculous.  For  the  moment 
French  gallantry  rose  superior  to  the  eternal 
fitness  of  things,  and  in  so  doing  partially 
destroyed  one  of  the  most  beautiful  effects 
ever  produced  upon  the  stage.  Even  in  the 
case  of  minor  players  so  complete  a  collapse 
of  dignity  would  not  easily  have  been  for- 
given. In  the  case  of  players  so  eminent, 
belonging  to  the  first  theatre  in  the  world, 
it  was  unpardonable. 


XI 


But  it  could  be,  and  was,  for  the  time  be- 
ing forgotten — as  the  play  went  on  with  a 
smooth  perfection,  and  with  a  constantly  in- 
creasing dramatic  force,  as  the  action  strength- 
ened and  quickened  in  accord  always  with 
the  requirements  of  dramatic  art. 

Without  any  apparent  effort  to  secure  pict- 
uresque effect,  with  a  grouping  seemingly 
259 


CDe  Christmas  Kalends  of  Provence 

wholly  unstudied  and  always  natural,  the 
stage  presented  a  scries  of  pictures  ideal  in 
their  balance  of  mass,  and  in  their  colour  and 
tone,  while  the  turning  off  and  on  of  the  elec- 
tric lights  produced  effects  analogous  to  those 
in  music  when  the  soft  and  hard  pedals  are 
used  to  give  to  the  more  tender  passages  an 
added  grace  and  delicacy,  and  to  the  stronger 
passages  a  more  brilliant  force.  And  always, . 
be  it  remembered,  the  play  thus  presented 
was  one  of  the  most  tenderly  beautiful  trag- 
edies possessed  by  the  world,  and  the  players 
— by  natural  fitness  and  by  training — were 
perfect  in  their  art. 

Presently  came  the  end — not  a  climax  of 
action;  not,  in  one  sense,  a  climax  at  all. 
With  a  master  -  touch,  Sophocles  has  made 
the  end  of  "Antigone"  the  dead  after-calm 
of  evil  action  —  a  desolate  despair.  Slowly 
the  group  upon  the  stage  melted  away.  Cre- 
on,  with  his  hopeless  cry  upon  his  lips,  "  Death ! 
Death!  On\y  death!"  moved  with  a  weary 
languor  toward  the  palace  and  slowly  dis- 
appeared in  the  darkness  be}Tond  the  ruined 
portal.  There  was  a  pause  before  the  chorus 
uttered  its  final  solemn  wTords.  And  then — 
260 


CDe  gomldie  francaise  at  Orange 

not  as  though  obeying  a  stage  direction,  but 
rather  as  though  moved  severally  by  the 
longing  in  their  own  breasts  to  get  away 
from  that  place  of  sorrow  —  those  others 
also  departed:  going  slowly,  in  little  groups 
and  singly,  until  at  last  the  stage  was 
bare. 

The  audience  was  held  bound  in  reality  by 
the  spell  which  had  seemed  to  bind  the 
chorus  after  Creon's  exit.  Some  moments 
passed  before  that  spell  was  broken,  before 
the  eight  thousand  hearts  beat  normally 
again  and  the  eight  thousand  throats  burst 
forth  into  noisy  applause — which  was  less, 
perhaps,  an  expression  of  gratitude  for  an 
artistic  creation  rarely  equalled  than  of  the 
natural  rebound  of  the  spirit  after  so  tense 
a  strain.  In  another  moment  the  seats 
were  emptied  and  the  multitude  was  flowing 
down  the  tiers  —  a  veritable  torrent  of  hu- 
manity—  into  the  pit:  there  to  be  packed 
for  a  while  in  a  solid  mass  before  it  could 
work  its  way  out  through  the  insufficient 
exits  and  so  return  again  to  our  modern 
world. 

And  then  the  Roman  Theatre — with  a  fresh 
261 


Che  Christmas   Kalends  of   Provence 

legend  of  beauty  added  to  the  roll  of  its 
centuries — was  left  desert  beneath  the  bright 
silence  of  the  eternal  stars. 

Saint-Remy-de-Provence, 

December,  1894. 


THE  END 


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